Marquéd
by Mogget
Summary: Winnen Fallou's life isn't going very well. Ill-used before being made a vampire, ill-used after...it all leaves something to be desired. And when she meets Ruan Ferrin--cold, calculating, perfection incarnate--everything seems to get a whole lot worse.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer business: So, I don't own the Night World, NW characters, places, ideas, yada yada yada; BUT. And I mean BUT, I do own the non-NW characters, places, ideas, etc. in this story. All right….Read on…!

Chapter 1

Winn threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, an old habit from her humanlife, her sable gaze sweeping swiftly, unobtrusively across the dimly lit brick-walled room, traveling over fearfully lovely faces, all young and feral and aloof. 

Frigid blue eyes met hers, and with a flinch she froze. Suppressing a shudder, she turned her gaze to the pale, delicate-boned hands folded tightly in her lap. That one was frightening. A bad one; she fancied she could smell the bad blood rushing through him. She must remember to stay away from that one; that bad-blooded one. Warily, Winn lifted her sharp-boned face to peer at the middle of the room, to Lif, the tall, lean young man standing there. She studied, cautiously, the expressive mouth, the angular facial structure the dim lighting accented so nicely, the glittering greeny-grey eyes. His eyes were gorgeous; gently slanted upwards at the corners, lavishly-lashed, the color distinct and vivid. Winn studied them covertly. Stunning, certainly. But they aren't clear, she wondered. Shaking the thought away, she fixed her eyes in the vicinity of his left cheekbone. Lovely boy, that, she thought, and forgot about the bad one there, behind her, in the murk. What was he saying? She should concentrate. She must remember that. 

            "…and tonight we have reason to rejoice, for tonight we have several fresh additions to our brethren, to our unique little organization…" Lif continued in his deep, husky-smooth voice, "…to the Marquéd. I shall introduce them to you, my lovelies, so that we may welcome them," Lif's eyes glinted, "and begin with our plans." Lif gestured, a graceful, almost limpid, movement, beckoning a slight young man to the middle of the room, the middle of a circle of perhaps fifty stony faces. Winn shivered. 

            Jon was the delicate man's name, and he, like most of the Marquéd in the room, was devastatingly handsome, a perfectly featured face set with deep, bistre-coloured eyes. Winn decided she didn't like him. Too perfect. Lif called three others up to stand around him, two young women and another young man, and they were invariably, ridiculously, beautiful.

            Winn sucked in her breath sharply, quietly—she was next. Indeed, Lif was already turning and beckoning to her. In response, she rose from her seat and joined the others. "And finally, my dears, this is Winnen Fallou, a frightened young," his lips caressed the word, "mite two of our scouts found wandering…but we shall make her welcome, shall we not? We shall make all of them welcome to the Marquéd." With this last, Lif gestured for the younglings to take their seats. Alone amongst the younglings, who were in the process of affecting a willowy gait, Winn hunched her narrow shoulders and hid her sharp little face behind a  fall of opaque, inky curls. They must not look at her, those beautiful and frightening creatures. They must not! Winn slid into her seat and felt the hooded glances of fifty of the Marquéd settle across her shoulders; the thread-like hairs spidered across her skinny, coat-encased arms, pricked up, whisker-like. Her senses flew open and were promptly assaulted by the augmented hum of rustling clothes, the spicy odor of clean skin, the deafening hush of fifty unbeating hearts. 

            But she must not be surprised. She must not be overwhelmed; they were dead, after all, and she knew it; she was dead herself. 

Please (times a thousand) give me comments…I savor and—get this—relish them…I will erect shrines for comments…! : )


	2. Chapter 2

So…this chapter has lots and lots and lots of background (remember: background, not present, and you're all set) goodness…muchisimas gracias to the lovelies who reviewed (Tamashii and galaktis)…I collapse in a prone bundle at your feet…Read on…!

By the by, I had a major brain fart when I uploaded this chapter earlier—I—ah—forgot to add the beginning part you see here. I'm so sorry—it hurts—oh, how it hurts…! ::smiles sheepishly:: 

Chapter 2—The Marquéd

"My people," Lif began, orb-like eyes flashing perilously, leading Winn's errant thoughts back to him, "as we all know, an insurrection of sorts has begun to brew," Lif's mouth twisted with distaste, "in our dear city of Melas. Apparently, a group of outcast vampires, mistakes, imperfections, aberrations, invariable insults to our brethren, has created an underground organization here, intent on undermining our influence in this city." This prompted growls and harsh whispers from the ethereal Marquéd. Winn winced and then frowned, trying to look angry, yes, and fierce! She succeeded in appearing vaguely irked. 

            One tall, voluptuous woman, red-haired and fierce, her full, sculpted features accentuated in the dim light, rose to her feet and growled, "Lif, sir, these…insults…must be dealt with swiftly and without mercy! We will rout these traitors only thus." She promptly sat down, fists clenched. 

            Lif chuckled and murmured, "Danna, my heart, I agree wholeheartedly." His voice sharpened, "But how do you propose we *find* them? Anyone?" Silence. Face contorted with annoyance, Lif continued, "We cannot speak of 'routing' if we have not yet come up with a decent scheme to unearth our enemies. Again, does anyone have ideas?" Silence. Lif fluttered his long-fingered hands in annoyance and sighed harshly. "Go to your homes, lovelies, and think on what might be done to detect these quacks—these subMarquéd! The meeting is ended." With that, the Marquéd rose gracefully—excepting Winn, who cringed and hunched down further into her chair—and divided into quite a few smallish groups, angrily discussing this latest. 

            "And what, I ask you, have the Marquéd ever done to merit such angst?"

            "This is pureed shit. What do they expect to accomplish?"

            "I don't know. I do know that if I find one, I'll rip his—or her—heart out and suck it dry…"

            Winn listened noncommittally to the conversation for a few minutes, and then began to slink away from the crowd, hair strewn over her face, hands in the pockets of her ragged jeans. She must get away now. From under a curtain of ringlets she peered from side to side, hands icy and trembling, as she made her way through the glamorous and terrifying crowd; too many Marquéd. Perfect Marquéd, at that. Upon reaching the door way, Winn took a last look at the crowd, soaking up the myriad of lovely faces, cool, lofty. As she rapidly scanned the crowd, her large, inky eyes locked with a pair of icy sapphire-colored ones, in which she was convinced she saw not only distaste, but something oddly murderous—not quite right—and she almost gasped. The gem-like eyes belonged to a face just as young and beautiful and remote and common as those surrounding it; high, finely-wrought cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, perfectly-shaped, arrogantly twisted lips, creamy, though unnaturally pale, skin. All of this topped with tousled, dark-red hair, almost wine-colored. Beautiful. Winn shuddered—unnatural. Winn didn't like him—the bad-blooded one. Clenching her jaw, and confident that the Marquéd would contact her in time for the next meeting, she jerked away and hurried out the door, headed towards Melas, and her apartment. 

* * *

Sitting on her cot in a dingy one-room flat, Winn remembered. She knew she had been Born only a couple weeks past. She knew she was eighteen—would always be eighteen. 

She remembered the humanlife she had led; the abused daughter of a pair of destitute drunks, Winn had run away from home in New York City to Boston, and then to Melas, at age sixteen. She was tired. Never falling into drugs or hooking—and this was not a result of any moral righteousness on her part—by luck she found work at a small, underground retail store that paid surprisingly well—or at least enough to live on—(the place had a reputation for repeatedly losing employees to "as yet undefined circumstances"). Regardless of its—tendencies, the facts testified that Winn needed money, and the place provided money. Thus was forged a relationship between the two. She tried never to think too far in the future, which she generally felt held unreasonably ill will towards  her; and after two years of living on and off the streets, moving constantly, and enduring what the future ladled out to her, she generally held ill will towards the future. 

Two years of unremitting strife left her anxious, hardened, skittish, and wary; she possessed wit but not humor; she had no friends. She did not allow herself friends. Not that she could make any, she thought, what with her neurosis. But perhaps her saving grace, or at least she considered it so, was her entirely unlikely love of reading. It gave her some measure of contentment in her all but cheery situation, some deep-seated feeling of respect for her own intelligence, even if she didn't (couldn't) attend high school and would probably never go to college. 

            That was humanlife. And humanlife ended for her a couple weeks past in November, when she went out for a rare and savored walk in the forest surrounding northern Melas. For once not fearing for herself (it was broad daylight, for god's sakes), and feeling almost at peace, Winn swung through the forest, admiring the slenderness of birch and rowan and laurel, the full splendor of oak and maple, a nebulous trace of sunshine playing about her lips. 

            Then she was attacked.

            Remembering, now stretched on her back, Winn trembled. 

            She had had less than a second's warning—the sudden crunch of leaves under phenomenally fast feet, the discordant hiss of an indrawn breath—before her assailant pressed a feverish hand across her eyes and held her down in an iron lock-hold. 

Winn remembered the first moment of dazed shock and confusion, the terror, desperate grappling, kicking and clawing, and sucking in air to scream—but before she could, she felt a humid breath on her neck and then the exquisite flash of pain as two long, slender, acute fangs, icy and dreadful, sank into the soft skin of her throat. Renewed shock at the revelation of there really being vampires. Then the excruciating sensation of blood being forcibly leeched from her body, the gradual loss of her senses. 

She didn't want to remember any more.

Because then, suddenly, her attacker had wrenched his fangs out of her flesh, and the world blinked out. 

Momentarily, at least.

When she came to, her attacker hissed and dumped her prone body to the leaf-carpeted earth, and cried out in rage and torment, "You are not Lilith! Not my Lilith!" 

Then the rapid thud of feet pounding the earth in flight. 

            As she lay on the moist, fragrant mulch, her leafy hair strewn over her face and clinging to the oozing welt under her jaw, Winn wished she could summon enough strength to sob and wail and rage at her premature, unceremonious death. Not surprisingly, she could scarcely squeeze out a single weak tear from the corner of her shut eye. She would die here, she knew, and it would make no difference to the rest of the world—a girl with no family, no friends, and very little identity—except that maybe vampires really did exist. 

Or that some pathological killer with sharp teeth and a fixation on arteries was on the loose. 

Either way, what did it matter to her? She could feel herself tumbling towards complete silence, total darkness; in a few seconds she'd be gone.  

            As she had lain crumpled on the forest floor, losing herself, Winn had numbly felt someone tilt her chin back and to the side, and another set of fangs sink into her flesh, taking just a little more blood. At this, Winn noticed, vaguely, a sharp-hot zap at the contact. He (wasn't it a he?) seemed to jerk away for a moment, and then cautiously resumed his task, reinitiating the altogether unwelcome electric-zinging business. 

As this new predator's mouth worked at her bruised throat Winn finally, gratefully, fell deep into oddly sparkling darkness. 

* * *

An indefinable period of time later, Winn had awakened in an alley wreathed in deep, midnight shadow. She lay there and she knew, without a doubt, and with all of herself, that she was dead and yet not quite dead; that she now belonged to the stuff of legend; that she was a new—thing—now. That her second attacker had made her into a—a vampire (but_ *why*?). _

She lay in a crumpled heap in the farthest, darkest corner of a putrescent, cemented ditch running behind a filthy-looking warehouse. No, not a warehouse—a meat factory. Coughing, Winn breathed in the cloying aroma of gutted flesh, the overwhelmingly acrid scent of feces, urine, and…blood. Sniffing the dense air, searching for that last, tangy odor, she noticed that all her senses, even dulled with sleep, were sharper, more fine-tuned, even predatory. Bloodscent suddenly and nauseatingly amalgamated her nostrils, brain, fingertips; for the first time in her life, she was consumed by a crushing thirst—or was it hunger?—for blood. 

With a deep, guttural cry of pain, Winn felt brand new, razor-sharp incisors puncture her gums and grow. She wanted blood. Scrambling on her hands and knees, Winn dragged herself to the source of the bloodscent, and blindly plunged her hands into the cold liquid. 

Minutes later, she sat back on her haunches and lapped at her rose-tipped fingers, thirst quenched, mildly shocked at her own bestiality.

            Slowly, Winn shook herself, dragged a hand across her mouth, and stood to gather her bearings. She supposed she was still in Melas; at least, she hoped so, and with her head down, hair swinging in front of her face, red-ridged hands stuffed into her pockets, she began to walk, trudging, lost, utterly alone and in a state of dawning fear, through the dank streets and backways that coursed through the unsavory warehousing and factory district of Melas. 

Eyes flicking from side to side, throwing glances over her shoulders, Winn hurried through the twisted roads, fearful and dazed, thoroughly lost, hands shaking.

            Click.

            She paused for a second and then hurried onward. Click. Click. Her quick steps abruptly stopped. 

            Someone, or a few someones, was trailing her.

            Certain that she had heard the clicking of at least one other pair of feet on the glistening road behind her, Winn twisted her body around and, eyes wide in her small face, searched the street. With recently honed vision, she probed the shadows huddled in corners, in windows, and detected nothing. It was a dog, she thought, yes, a frightful dog! Drawing her breath in slowly, Winn laughed shakily to herself, shook her head a little to calm down, turned back around, and prepared to take a step. 

And abruptly stopped. 

            A few feet away, two figures towered before her, eyes hidden in shadow, moonlight and lamplight gleaming on their finely molded, impassive faces. With a stifled shriek, she whirled to run, and automatically one of the figures' arms whipped out and clamped a hard, lean, callused hand around her wrist. 

It hurt. 

Winn tried to jerk away, fingers splayed into claws, hissing, to her own surprise, with fangs bared, naked and white in the bluish light. The two pale faces above her registered surprised as well, but the grip on her wrist held firm. Her captor jerked her wrist sharply, to still her. 

            "Stop fighting," she commanded in a low, menacing voice. 

In response, Winn fought, nearly hyperventilating, harder.

            Lips gently curved in a soft smile, the other figure murmured in a soft, soothing tone, "We won't hurt you, youngling, not now." He bent down a little and his eyes swung into view. Large, distinctly greeny-grey eyes gleaming, he continued, "We do not harm our own."

            Winn froze, quivering slightly, and gaped up at the two creatures before her. She almost, beyond reason, believed them, and she was so confused, and alone, and afraid. Should she trust them? What else could she do? Run? Go back to her old life, her humanlife, and be swallowed by sameness again, just with the added, apparently not-so-obscure, habit of drinking blood?

            "Come with us," the man urged gently. The woman released her wrist. It tingled as the blood rushed back into it. 

            She followed.

!!!!Comments are most thoroughly enjoyed, relished, and found altogether delectable…I still maintain that I will erect shrines for comments, so please do - comment, that is.: ) !!!! 


	3. Chapter 3

This is more background goodness plus some here-and-now madness…More "remembering"…Read on…!

Note: Ruan is pronounced "Rwahn" (well, that is to say, I think it is. Heh.)

By the by, I had a major brain fart when I uploaded Chapter 2 earlier—I—ah—forgot to add the beginning part. I'm so sorry—it hurts—oh, how it hurts…! ::smiles sheepishly::  

Third special note-express-of-the-day from yours truly: I wrote this while listening to Björk's remix-album Telegram…it was a neat-o experience…try it out, maybe… 

~Thistle Galena: Yeah, "putrescent" is an awesome word! I'm glad you like the story thus far…thanks so much for reviewing; I collapse in a comatose heap at your feet…! Read on…!

~galaktis: Please (times eight hundred thousand) keep the comments coming, my friend. I am so glad you like the writing, and I promise to live up to your plot expectations (at least, I'll try really, really, really hard)…Regarding the updating business, I just began revising and uploading the story (which was gathering cobwebs and big spiders) this weekend (during which I had a relatively small amount of homework), so I had a lot of stuff to put up and a lot of time to do it in…I'll try to update every four or five days—maybe more on weekends—I'll try with all my heart and soul. Thanks for reviewing, and I once again plummet to earth in a boneless mess at your toes…!  

~fin: Nice to meet you, buddy…I am delighted that you're enjoying the story so far, and you get to meet Mr. Soulmate-man himself ::does a little dance:: this chapter ::falls down:: though it's mostly background goodness…please read on, and thanks for reviewing—I tumble to the ground in a great jumble at your feet…!

~Aya: I'm glad you like the writing technique business! Sorry about the slowness in the beginning…it should get snappier soon…please do read on my chum, and keep the comments rolling in…thanks for the review, it was delightful, and so I drop to the good earth, prostrate, at your toes…!

~Tamashii: I definitely know you deserve it, my good reviewer. Please keep reading and sending reviews…I like them better than rice pudding (really!)…and I will keep writing…thanks for the review, and now I hit the ground, squirm a little, and then sort of, well, stop—at your feet. : ) 

Chapter 3: The Marquéd

Ruan thought about the girl, that new one. Impatiently brushing his wine-colored hair out of his eyes, he lay, face a mask of stone, on a plush, plum-colored velvet couch in a gorgeous, spacious apartment located in ritzy northeast Melas. He lay there and remembered. 

            New York City, December 13, 1896—the day he, aged nineteen, met the beautiful, impetuous young made vampire, his lovely Myr. But he didn't want to think about that. Before that, he had been the impoverished, disowned son of wealthy banker Julius Ferin, of the influential lamia family, and famed, flamboyant courtesan of the elite, Madam Lela Meurdou (distantly related to the Redfern clan). Not surprisingly, directly following his birth, his vivacious mother left him with a servant at the Ferin townhouse and fled to London to pursue a Masonic circle of barons. 

Life with Julius Ferin. After an infancy characterized by chronic hunger—no one could seem to remember him—and a childhood distinguished by furtive, periodic beatings by the servants and abuse of the more psychological genre from Julius, Ruan had evolved into something treacherously close to depravity—by his mid-teens he was quiet, coldblooded, and highly intelligent. 

While at the University, he met Myr. He recalled, far too vividly, her sloping cheekbones, slanting, heavily fringed mauve-purple eyes, cool, smooth skin, glossy sand-coloured hair. She was perfect, like him. An equal, he remembered thinking at the time. Myr was someone he could stand, if not exactly love—he couldn't—couldn't love. His father, taking a bizarre, ill-timed interest in his son, hated her, and consequently disowned his son. 

            His eyes shuttered into slits, Ruan's lips curved up in a muted smile.

She left him four months later. 

And then he was alone for a quarter of a century, giving up University, moving mendicant-like from New York to Paris, to Amsterdam, and finally to Melas, famed "Metropolis of the Western Hemisphere."

There, on a hunt for a meal, he met Lif, a vampire older than the Renaissance, who dared to create a secret, though influential, underworld within the already established Night World elite, made up of the crème of vampire society, to take control of Melas, and subsequently much of the western world, and to ensure protection for what Lif considered the most deserving and peerless species on the planet: vampirae. Witches, shapeshifters, and whatnot—they were nonsense, Lif declared, nonsense, diluted, ephemeral, and fundamentally *less*. The organization he called simply the Marquéd, for, according to Lif, vampirae was the only species that could really be considered marked, or elite. 

Everything else was, quite literally,*food*. 

And Ruan agreed unreservedly. They were all less—less.  

            Lif, with the assistance of Ruan, had gone on to change many facets of Melas. The Marquéd were in control now, eighty years later—more powerful than any Night World council, or circle—at least in Melas. The Marquéd were more selective, stronger, sharper, and more ruthless than any other Night World council could ever hope, aspire, *wish* be! The Marquéd were, as a result, in control of the Night World. Ruan was in control. And though he might be censured by outsiders—and insiders, for that matter—for being aloof…How could he not be? He was cruel, merciless, serpentine…naturally. It was no trial—it took no effort. It just was.   

            He stayed alone—he was pristine in his solitude. The others could not impress upon him their taint—their ingrained, imperfection. 

            During meetings with the Marquéd, Ruan kept to himself. His best—and only—friend was Lif. And they were hardly friends. Leaders of the Marquéd, yes. Admired by each other? Certainly. Respected? Without a doubt. And yet, in spite of all this, they could not be friends, not really. Because Ruan knew that Lif could never quite trust him, which, Ruan judged, was shrewd on Lif's part—Ruan was entirely certain that he could very easily get rid of Lif—and Lif knew it. 

            And now, that girl was in the way. He felt vaguely disturbed by that girl. That…Winnen. 

His lips twisted with distaste as he recalled the unpleasant electric…stuff…that had flared up when he touched her skin. Sighing, his shoulders slumped. __

~Now I have to get rid of it—her_…~He contemplated that thought.__ ~But at what risk? Of my—ah—sanity?~_

            Features settling back into a comfortable flintiness, he recalled that—experience. 

He and a youngling, Fred, he remembered, were out for a walkt. Fred was not quite right in the head, overwrought because of a human girl, Lilith, whom he had inadvertently killed while attempting to change her. Drained her dry. Since then, Fred had been degenerating further and further into madness; Lif, worried about his "lovely" had asked Ruan to "take the poor thing out for a walk…the fresh air might clear his head a little." Interested in what the Fred-boy would do, Ruan had dragged him out to the forest clustered about northern Melas. 

            They had walked without talking, Fred staring listlessly at the sun-dappled trees, Ruan breathing in the redolence of soil and mulch. 

Without warning, Fred's eyes flashed and he took off towards the left in a blur. Ruan, frowning, irked, followed him a little more slowly. 

Fred was crouched over the already-limp body of a black-haired girl, her pale, delicate fingers loosely clawed, as Fred proceeded to drain her. As Ruan watched, stoic, though mildly disgusted at the sticky, gurgling sounds the youngling made, Fred shuddered violently and wrenched his mouth from the girl, and cried in a choked voice, enraged, "You are not Lilith! Not my Lilith!" He sped away, gasping. 

            By now highly amused, Ruan stared down at the girl for a moment, who lay in a heap on the ground, leaves ensnared in her coal-dark ringlets. She looked very small, very frail, lying there, bundled up in a large greyish-green coat, a rip bisecting the left sleeve, her jeans shabby. Her face, pale even in sunlight, was turned up towards him; her skin was translucent, bluish; her lips were pale from loss of blood; her facial structure delicate. Ruan made to turn around and follow Fred, when a flicker of light caught something glistening at the corner of her right eye; Ruan turned back and watched a single, mute tear slide down her cheek and onto her earlobe, where it lay, glimmering in the filtered sunlight. Ruan cocked his head to the side, contemplating this human-creature. 

            ~She's weak. That much is clear…~Ruan smiled gently, his bright eyes elfish and cold. ~But wouldn't it be—nice—to have someone to play with?  It would be nice.~ 

Without further meditation on the matter, Ruan knelt beside the girl and breathed in the coppery scent of the thick red liquid matting the hair that lay against her neck. Pulling away the hair, he lowered his mouth to the ragged wound and bit into the bruised flesh—and was promptly electrocuted. 

He jerked his face away, breathing harshly.

~Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What is this—nonsense?~ He sighed. ~You know exactly what this nonsense is. Soulmate principle? Precisely. Ah.~ Ruan moved to grip her head—break her neck. With a twist, twist, twist. ~What are you doing? Getting rid of it. Rid? Why? You can still play with her, can't you? Still play? Yes…it'll be a little more challenging, that's all. That's all.~ 

Ruan smiled softly, joyously. ~We can play together~, he thought.       

 Placated, Ruan lowered his face back to her flesh—this time he didn't jerk away—and drew a little more blood out—he had to take some of hers into himself to change her. He then, very methodically, sliced his wrist open, opened her mouth and let the purplish blood drip into it. She swallowed reflexively, and when he was quite sure that her dwindling blood supply had been replenished with his own cold, brackish hoard, he picked up her now "dead" body. Dismissing the idea that Fred might be lost—he kind of hoped he was—Ruan picked the girl up—her name, he knew, was Winnen—and jogged back to Melas, holding the girl's slight form tightly.       __

~She's light~, he thought vaguely. 

Soon he was entering a bad area of Melas—the southeast—headed towards a meat factory. A few times, in emergencies, he'd stopped there to feed out of the gore left over from a day's slaughter. If the girl had any sense, whatsoever, she would do the same. He'd look for her later and introduce her to the Marquéd. My youngling. His body tingled with anticipation; he was excited, for the first time since—well, since meeting Lif in the twenties. 

Ruan grimaced as he ran through the squalid streets, garbage lining curbs, rats and whatnot scampering in and out of gutters. No one would find her here, that he was considerably sure of, and even if they did, it didn't look like anyone would really care; not in this neighborhood, not for a girl whose clothing and weight marked her as indigent. 

There it was. A filthy-looking, ponderous building that smelled of feces and urine and blood. Quickly scanning the edifice, he spied an alley running behind it and ran over; he placed her in a deeply shadowed corner where the alley ended in a six-foot wall. Even to his sharp eyes she was almost completely hidden. 

He'd be back later.

* * *

            By the next morning he had been quietly quivering with rage at himself and the girl. Pacing around his sumptuous, yet sparely, decorated apartment, clenching and unclenching his fists, glowering at his grey and white and crimson furniture, Ruan wanted to scream with rage. She was a—a weak, sickly-looking, whey-faced, subhuman *reject*! Ruan knew what he must do to redeem himself. No one must know what he had done—that he, a leader of the Marquéd—the Marquéd!, had created an insult to the vampirae. 

            He would kill her.

            ~Kill her kill her kill her…~

            She wouldn't have risen yet; he could go back to the meat factory today and dispose of her. Ruan's eyes gleamed, a little uncertainly, he thought, peering into a tall, ebony-framed mirror. When he looked up again, his face was gentle, the azure eyes gleaming with something empty—the face he knew. 

            He would go now.

* * *

            But when he had reached the alley she was gone. She couldn't possibly have risen yet, he thought. Couldn't possibly. Only the strongest vampires rose so soon and she was weak, he knew she was. She must be. He glanced around the area again and once again found no trace of the girl. 

For the next few days, whenever he went out, he kept his senses wide open, searching for any signs of the girl; he detected nothing. It was as though she had vanished. Maybe she was murdered somehow, he had thought, relieved. 

Two weeks later she showed up at the meeting. Recalling this, Ruan hissed aloud. He'd been using the doorway as a sort of focal point—so he wouldn't have to look at any of the other Marquéd—when, out of his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a decrepit young woman framed by the doorway. Her shabbiness was what caught his attention—no one in the room would ever wear anything quite that ragged (unless burlap sacks and polyester muumuus were in season). Sharply, drawing in his breath as he recognized the coat, the unruly hair—though he couldn't quite make out the face, hidden behind rich, dark locks as it was—Ruan followed her with his eyes full of quiet, cold rage as she unobtrusively slid into a seat just a few rows ahead of him. He didn't understand how she could be at this meeting; only the most powerful vampires and most promising younglings were allowed even to attend. And was she not weak? Of course she was. He had watched as she warily, as though out of long habit, skimmed the room, glancing over her shoulder and over the faces behind her; he caught her eyes as they slid over his face. Black, he thought, they were very, very black. Like midnight water. She froze, and he saw her whole face tighten with fear and confusion—she didn't recognize him, of course, but she was strangely disturbed. He was glad she was disturbed. Remembering, Ruan's lips curved up, in a very unfriendly smile. She turned quickly away and hunched down into her chair, hair scattered over her face. 

When Lif called the new younglings up, the girl amongst them, Ruan had had to work to keep the rage from showing on his face. Lif almost never bothered to introduce the younglings so—he'd done so maybe two, or three times since Ruan had known him, and only to introduce those whom he believed showed rare promise. This girl, this vagrant, introduced to the Marquéd as though she were premier debutante at her first ball—impossible. And yet it was done. How Lif could have decided this so quickly was beyond him—but Lif had a feel for this sort of thing…another one of his talents, Ruan supposed. 

During the meeting he blocked them all out.

After the meeting, remembering the girl, Ruan stood quickly and followed her as she trudged furtively towards the doorway. She turned around for a final appraisal of the crowd and caught him staring coldly at her. Flinching just a bit, she flushed delicately and hurried out into the sunlight. Ruan stared frostily after her and quietly followed.  

* * *

            He had followed her for several blocks into west Melas, one of the shabbier areas in the city. The houses grew gradually dingier as they traveled further into the neighborhood. Finally, she stopped in front if an unhandsome stucco building, its pale yellow paint chipping at the corners, and went in.

            ~So this is where she lives~, he had thought, not surprised. Quietly slipping away from the corner of a building across from hers, he strolled back to the meetinghouse, and drove home. 

* * *

(…and we are out of that blast to the past…)

            Winn lay back on her cot and stared at the cracked ceiling. Sighing, she wondered about what Lif had said this afternoon, about there being "outcast vampires" out there somewhere, in Melas, just waiting for their moment, building strength. Were they just as beautiful as the Marquéd, she wondered? *Why* were they outcasts? Gathering what she knew about Lif, his obvious pride in his "lovelies", his willingness to use complete ruthlessness towards his own kind, his deep aversion to these outcasts, whose violations, other than rebellion, he made no attempt to discuss and clarify, she figured they were probably deformed or simply opposed Lif's conduct towards the city, or something. She wondered what they had done. 

            And then there was that bad-blooded one; the one who stared at her with murder veiled in softness in his eyes. She must stay away from him.

            "Ugh." As she rolled over and stood, a dizzying flash of heat weakened her. She needed to feed. She hated doing this; she refused to feed off of other creatures, and when she drank older, cold blood, as she'd done for the past couple weeks, she felt she'd ralph. Either way, she was stuck. Grumbling under her breath, she opened the tiny refrigerator sitting on the scuffed hardwood floor and pulled out a plastic container of murky red liquid. 

            "Questionable," she mumbled to herself. She held her nose and swallowed quickly, retching a little. She'd better get used to this. Fast.

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully, as usual, for Winn. She worked at the shop, hung around home, and forced sustenance on herself. 

The next meeting, a couple days later, was uninteresting as well. After the meeting, however, Winn had just begun walking towards the door when she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder. She froze. 

"Winnen-little, do not be frightened," a deep, husky voice intoned behind her.

Winn held back a shudder. "Hello—sir," she whispered huskily.

Lif smiled slightly, his odd, greeny-grey eyes twinkling. "I know we haven't had much time to discuss your new—situation. But I have something for you to do." 

Surprise, surprise. The only time she'd talked to him in person was the night she'd woken up in that horrid alley. Turned out that the scouts she had…met…were none other than Lif himself and fire-haired Danna. Two of the Marquéd—not only that, but one of them was the most prominent member of the Marquéd. She still couldn't fathom what Lif could possibly have seen in her to prompt him to invite her—no, it wasn't really an invite; it was more of a veiled order—to their esteemed meetings. Whim, maybe? Hunch, mayhap? She really couldn't say—other than the blood, the sharp senses and whatnot, she still felt pretty…human. 

Puzzled and nearly shaking with trepidation, Winn followed him to another dimly lit room, this one furnished with stately crème-satin-upholstered chairs and sofa, a tall rose-wood bookcase, which Winn studied curiously, scarlet/ultramarine/russet-colored Tiffany lamps, and various antique curios. 

"Winnen, dear, I'll be back directly," Lif called, and stepped out.

Winn sighed with admiration as she studied the lovely furniture. 

Moments later, hearing the slight scuff of shoes on wood, Winn spun around. To see the bad-blooded, red-haired one step into the room, followed by a beaming Lif. The gorgeousness of the room was suddenly lost on her. 

The thin skin around Ruan's eyes went almost imperceptibly tight when he spotted her. ~What is she doing here what what why…~

Winn frowned—something was tugging, tugging at her mind— 

"Lif, what is this?" he asked quietly.

Lif grinned back at him, "*Who* is this, you mean. This is Winnen, of course, Winnen Fallou, one of the new younglings—you remember, from last week—"

"I remember."

"Yes. Winnen is to be your novice."

"Novice."

"Quite right." 

            Winn gaped at them from behind her hair and tried to melt into the bookcase jutting into her spine. She must get away from the bad-blooded one.

            "My novice, Lif?" Ruan's eyes flashed, in his deceptively mild face, dangerously.

            "I've hatched a plan, lovely, a brilliant plan! And you and Winnen here are to be the stars." Lif's eyes narrowed fractionally and all at once Winn glimpsed something—rotten— "You see Ruan, dear, Winnen needs to be, ah—initiated. You agree, don't you? And you, one of the Marquéd's oldest, yes, and most celebrated leaders shall serve as her mentor-partner."

            "I see." Ruan asked coolly, "And what, if I may, is…our…assignment?" 

            Lif's eyes flared. "Simply to infiltrate the imposters' headquarters and bring back crucial information. How you will do this is up to you—I'm sure you'll think of something." Lif grinned, eyes narrowed, "And you must be quick my hearts, so that we may proceed with all due speed."

            Winn stared at the two young Adonis look-alikes, planning, planning. Winn frowned from behind her hair. ~I'm not quite sure I want to be one of the Marquéd~, she protested silently. She certainly did not want to be the bad-blooded one's *novice*; she must stay away from him, the bad one. ~But then, if I refuse, Lif will brand me a rebel, won't he, won't he?~ Maybe kill her. And then what? Her short life/death/life would have amounted to nothing. She didn't want to be a 'nothing'. Winn thrust her hair fiercely out of her eyes, behind her ears. She would do this, she would be one of the Marquéd, and she would do something with her as yet pathetic life/death/life. Wrapping her arms around herself, Winn whispered hoarsely, "It's Winn." Both young men turned to stare at her.

            "What was that, Winnen, dear?" Lif inquired.

            Clearing her throat, she answered huskily, "My name. Not Winnen—it's Winn." She glanced at the bad-blooded one, his face shuttered and expressionless. Ruan, she thought, his name is Ruan. Bad-blooded Ruan, not the bad-blooded one. She must remember that.

            Ruan stared back at her, once again boring ice picks into her skull. Maybe he has something against females? she thought. Huh.

            "Ah. That's very nice." Lif smiled vaguely at Winn, and turned back to Ruan. "And one more thing, Ruan. Clear out one of those extra bedrooms of yours for—Winn. If we're to have this done quickly, I want both of you as close as possible. And we can't have our burgeoning youngling here living in that dump."

            Lif's eyes glimmered. Winn flushed and hid behind her hair again. Must he say it like that? she thought hotly. And—how does he know where I live? From behind a curtain of hair, Winn narrowed her eyes and shot a glance up at Lif. His eyes…his eyes were not the same—they'd changed, somehow. They were—cold. Reptilian. She shook herself inwardly. And she must stay away from the bad—no, bad-blooded Ruan. 

            Ruan seethed.  


	4. Chapter 4

So, I think we are pretty much out of the mega-sized blast-to-the-past that characterized the first few chapters…Hope you enjoy the rest of the story (which will be really really really *long*--at least, I hope so.) 

Zabella: Nice to meet you. I'm super glad you're enjoying the story…please read on, my newfound correspondent! Oh, and by the by, thanks for reviewing ::mega-watt grin:: 

fin: He he. Yeah, Lif kinda freaks me out too…he's a real screwy fella…and maybe he'll get even *more* barmy…Winn's interesting to me—I think it'll be an experience to watch her *grow*. And Ruan—he is an ass. But I don't know if he'll be getting his posterior kicked soon…we'll see…Thanks so much for reviewing, and read on!

galaktis: I love reviews! And I love responding to them! Yeah, Winn is kind of peculiar…she's an awkward, neurotic semi-nutcase…how she'll evolve will be interesting to witness…Thanks for your positively delightful review! Read on…!

Raquel: Good to meet you! I'm glad you like the story…please read on…!

Chapter 4: The Marquéd 

Two days later Winn stood in front of Ruan's door, by her own insistence grasping the handles of a large duffel bag and one tattered, felt suitcase, standing in a hallway in a huge, stylish, thoroughly ravishing apartment building in northeast Melas. Her frayed shoes sunk into the lush, tastefully muted, carpet.

            She was petrified.

            Tentatively, she knocked at the door. No answer. She knocked again, a little more assertively— 

He—*he*— threw  open the door, lifted the luggage out of her hands, and strode through a high-ceilinged living room, down a long hall, past several tall doors, to the last door on the right. Last door on the right. She must remember that. Without looking at her, he ungraciously dumped her bags in front of the closed door, and brushed past her; she heard him grab something and leave through the front door. She was alone. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered a room larger than the whole of her own apartment, done in neutral colors, bare of anything save a bed, a graceful chest of drawers, and a small bookcase. Tossing her bags at the foot of the bed, she pulled off her shoes and curled up on the soft, white-blanketed bed, kitten-like. She was asleep in seconds. 

* * *

Hours later, satiated, Ruan returned to his apartment. As soon as he opened the door, his near-exuberant self tumbled back to earth, remembering that the girl, Winn, was living here for the time being. When she had appeared at his door that afternoon, pale face hidden behind her thick, matte-black curls, he had wanted to rage at her, scream at her, carry her bodily out of the lobby. He involuntarily remembered how light she was. 

            How could *she*, a youngling, pose a threat? he wondered. 

            Suddenly, his stiff, stoic features relaxed, almost into a smile. Of course. He mustn't be upset. ~This—she—is my plaything, correct? Right. Mine—and my soulmate. We will play—no, nix that—I will play_.~ He smiled._

            Ruan strolled out into the spacious living room, expecting to see her perched on a couch, or something—Not there. He hurried to his bedroom, glancing down the corridor as he opened the door. Noticing her own door was ajar, he took a few tentative steps down the hall; he wanted that door closed—closed. Cautiously glancing through the gaping door, Ruan narrowed his eyes, seeing her heaped so harmlessly in the middle of the large bed. Covertly he studied her slight form, half her face hidden in the folds of her too-large coat, the other half drawn and shadowed in the bluish early evening light. He closed the door quietly and slowly walked back to his own room.

* * *

            Gentle shafts of white light streamed through the window, falling softly onto Winn's face. Morning. Growling a little, Winn opened her eyes and discovered that she was curled up in the same fetal position she had fallen asleep in the afternoon before. For a second, she remembered where she was and felt a second pang of fear. She felt nauseous. And *hungry*. No—not hungry, thirsty-hungry, which meant she must go and suck the life out of something or down a carton of gore. Nice, she thought. Very nice. Not like she had a choice as to whether she would become a vampire or not—no one asked her what she thought of drinking this stuff. Not, of course, that she wasn't *grateful* for being alive, at least in a manner of speaking. She was…grateful, she supposed. 

            She supposed she could go to a butcher or something; they had butchers around here didn't they? Recalling her wary hike up the long, pristine driveway to the apartment building, she made a face. Probably not in this oh so upscale neighborhood, she thought unhappily. 

Groaning at the effort of getting to her feet, she decided to ask Ruan if he had anything in the fridge. After pulling on a fresh pair of jeans, and an old, once-yellow T-shirt with "Moosh" written in faded blue letters across the top, she trudged down the hall and into the living room, searching for him. Please be awake. Please. Please. Exploring room after spacious room, she finally went back to the living room and sat at the bar in the adjoining kitchen. Huh. She really was feeling lightheaded. Served her right, she supposed, dazed. *I'm…dizzy…* she pronounced to herself, swaying in her stool.

            There he was…finally…walking over, blurred…hurry. ~Ah well~, she thought as she tumbled out of her stool, ~serves me right.~

            Ruan's arm snapped out and caught her before she hit the floor face-first. Gripping her shoulders, he noticed how pale she was. Albino-pale. Narrowing his eyes, he sat her roughly down on the tiled floor—she slumped against a low cabinet. He checked her pulse and found it weak—feather-light. Sighing, Ruan stood and pulled a carton out of the refrigerator. He opened her mouth and, *déjà vu*, he thought wryly, poured the cold, thick-dark contents down her throat. He waited, watching her face, for her to revive. Soon enough, her cheeks filled with a subtle rosewater-flush, and her big, violet-shadowed eyes snapped open to find Ruan staring intently at her, his high brow smooth, blasé. Again, she realized how very beautiful his face was, the sculpted features, the longish, uncombed and inherently mussed wine-dark hair. She shrank back against the cabinets warily, tense.

            A suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Ruan stood and walked around to the other side of the counter. Sitting down, the smile faded, and he muttered in an irritated voice, "You didn't eat. You're supposed to eat everyday. Next time, eat." 

            Winn shook herself off and slid into a stool at the end of the counter. "Yeah," she muttered. "Thanks."  

            Ruan looked over at her, eyes blank, and began, "Today we'll start. We'll go to this place I know on the southeast side."

            Winn nodded. Taking a shaky breath, she intoned softly, "Let's go now."

            Ruan nodded, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye with a peculiarly cool amusement. "Let's go now," he repeated. 

* * *

Ruan drove down an empty highway bordering the forest around north Melas without speaking, and Winn kept her mouth shut as well.

            Winn was uncomfortable. Unused to even the most casual interaction with others, she had to fight to keep from trembling from fright and uneasiness. She hated the feeling. It was in her gut—she fancied Ruan's contempt, condescension, disdain, etc. was palpable. She'd been mediocre all her life; to her parents, to anyone who noticed her clothing. But this was all human stuff. Did it matter to vampires? She knew she wasn't good-looking enough. All those Marquéd at the last two meetings were, of course, invariably beautiful, excepting herself. She was too pale, too puny, too sickly-looking, she knew. She wasn't blind.  

            She hunched down into her seat. Her life hadn't changed much. She just had scarier teeth. No friends—*not that I want any*, Winn corrected herself. Come to think of it, this bad Ruan seemed kind of reclusive himself. At the last meeting, she noticed he'd kept to himself while the others divided into obvious cliques. Huh. Bad Ruan's a loner. Guess the snob isn't so perfect after all. The thought made her smile a little. Frowning, she wondered how he became ultra-intrapersonal. Bad humanlife experience? Probably. Funny how although the vampirae had physically left the human world, they still lugged its baggage here and there, including, of course, herself. In some ways, this bad Ruan was just as pathetic as she was. At the thought  she chuckled softly.

            Startled, Ruan glanced over at the girl. She sat hunched down in her seat, her hair all over her face, arms wrapped about herself. He'd heard her speak how many times? Three? Four? 

            "What's so amusing?" 

            Winn looked up at his general direction and muttered, "Nothing." 

            Interested now, Ruan let his mind roam and center on hers; he dipped into the surface of her mind, eyes glimmering—

            ~_…bad Ruan's a loner… just as pathetic as I am…bad Ruan…pathetic…pathetic__…~_

            His face went tight, his eyes went an icy violet-blue, his knuckles clutched and went white around the steering wheel. 

            Then, oddly, his face gradually relaxed into an almost agreeable expression, mild. He brought the car to a stop. Winn straightened, looked up at him. Staring straight ahead, he uttered pleasantly, "Get out." 

Winn stared at him, frightened again. He turned and faced her. Winn drew in her breath—something was not right with his face—there was something—

He was smiling.

She didn't move; she was frozen. 

Ruan's smile widened; his eyes were dark, quiet, his rumpled hair blood-colored.  

A fine trembling seemed to have enveloped Winn as he climbed out of the car, ambled over to her side, pulled the door open, deftly unbuckled her seatbelt and jerked her out of the car by the arm. 

Winn stifled a shriek of pain as she tumbled in a heap to the asphalt. 

Her shoulder felt dislocated—tendons in her wrist were crushed. Her breath came shallow—what was that keening sound? Gaping up at Ruan, she clutched her damaged arm to her chest. 

He was still smiling that summery, pleasant, delightful smile. "Winn."

She coughed and sucked in a sharp, shaky breath. "Hnh.."

"It wasn't very nice of you to call me names, was it?"

*Wha_—?* Winn stared—*shake your head, say no*…She shook her head slowly._

 "That's right." His smile faded, and suddenly—his face was even more disturbing—it looked like a—a mask, something dead. He turned away and strode over to the car. In he slid and sped away.   

 Alone and gasping, Winn clumsily pulled off the grey-green coat and stared at the rosy imprints of fingers wrapping around her arm. She held her arm out, transfixed, and gingerly rotated her purplish wrist. The bruises had already begun to fade, as was the pain in her shoulder. The near-translucent skin was a lovely lilac hue…like lilies in shade. Winn was vaguely aware that a feverish quivering had spread from her chest outwards, throughout her body, to the tips of her fingers, toes. 

In minutes, her arm was completely healed. Pulling on her coat with shaking hands, Winn glanced in the direction Ruan had gone. She heaved a shaky sigh. She should've expected it. To her irritation, her vision blurred and liquid brimmed on her lower lids. Manhandling was nothing new. Fingers curled, she stroked the flawless flesh of her now-whole arm, running her fingers so lightly, lightly over the sparse, fine hairs; she turned her arm so the even paler underside faced up; gazing at the pale blue criss-cross of veins.

 On her back on the nubbly asphalt, she stretched kitten-like, closed her eyes. Her eyelids were warm, moist; with a gasp she conjured up a crisp, vivid image—like a snapshot—of her dingy apartment building, where she could be safe, and quiet, and alone. Trembling, she could see all minute details of her room: the cracks in the ceiling shaped like lopsided, amoebic spider webs, her lumpy cot, the slightly warped, very scuffed hardwood floors. Dingy to be sure, and ugly, most certainly. It was *hers*. 

            The wetness had retreated from behind her eyelids; reluctantly, she willed her eyes open—

            She was in her room.

* * *

            "What—?" 

Shuddering violently, Winn whipped around and stared, wide-eyed, at her positively unreal surroundings. So surreal—everything looked so—no—everything *was* real. She hadn't imagined it; she truly was inside her apartment, in her own room! How? ~How how how?~ her mind echoed. "Am I—where am—…?" she demanded. 

Was it a dream? A dream…Ruan? The Marquéd? It was a dream…All of it…

Her chest went tight—was it a dream?—She probed her gums with her tongue—

Fangs. They were still there. Not a dream. 

Then how did this happen? What was going on?  This—this—what was this? Blinking out of a spot and reappearing an instant later in a place she recalled in her mind's eye? Lunacy. Madness. Delusion. Winn opened her eyes wide and tried to block it out—out. She didn't want to understand—not now.

Lips parted, still shaken but a little calmer, Winn tiptoed lightly to a corner and carefully sat down, her shoulders braced by the two walls, knees drawn up under her slightly pointed chin. She wrapped her arms around her legs and sat still, taking in the quiet, the blue-grey light coming through a small window at her right, the softness and the calm. She was afraid to breathe for fear of breaking this spell, or waking up. Leaning her head against the corner, she closed her eyes and tried to pretend all was as it had been, before.

* * *

"Shit." Ruan clenched his hands around the driving wheel. 

~You need her cooperation—I know! Go back.~

             His bones felt cold. "Fine," he murmured. "Fine."

            The petite, olive-chartreuse-y-green car suddenly swerved into a sharp U-turn and sped back the way it had come.

            Ruan smiled softly. He mustn't let his instinct get the better of him again. Stupid.

            The car slowed as he reached the place where he'd left her. He stopped the car at the side of the road. 

She was gone.

Narrowing his eyes, he slid out the car and walked over the place she'd fallen, white face tense with pain, in the soft dirt. He knitted his brow at the ground. No tracks. Only a swathe of rumpled soil lay imprinted in the earth, where she had lain heaped. But there were no tracks leading onto the road, or further off the road, or along the shoulder, in any direction. As though she'd vanished from that very spot—?

            "What the fuck is going on?" he questioned the asphalt calmly. Brows drawn together, Ruan stared at the prints to the street to the prints again. She had disappeared. There was—could be—no other explanation. She had literally disappeared. 

            Ruan stood, still, statue-like, thinking. He wracked his brain—had he ever heard of any vampire who could disappear—or fly, for that matter? Flying was a myth, unadulterated bull. But—but. But disappearing—There was something—he could almost remember—his eyes flashed. Lips curved into a small smile, Ruan remembered. 

Decades ago, when he had withdrawn from both human and vampire society directly after Myr's departure, he had buried himself in the study of vampirae. During his study he had come across a very old, very obscure account of an ancient made vampire from Ireland, her name unmentioned (whether purposely or not, he couldn't say) and so unknown—though she was the most powerful of her time. The account told of a woman who could vanish from one place and appear at another in less than an instant, at will. The power had been Born with her, and it was only one of the many powers she possessed; it was the barest glimpse into her deep, untried realm of power, some she had managed to harness, and more still that had lain dormant, deep within her. In the end, it was that power that had killed her, its wild fire and indomitable chill breaking out of her at last to swallow her whole. This vampire, this woman, had drowned, bloated with energy, in her own power. 

            Ruan shivered. He felt…excited. This vampire was the not only the most powerful of her own time, but also the most powerful in all memory, in all times—or she at least had held that potential. Lif's Marquéd seemed so petty…insignificant…weak, compared to that. 

He narrowed his eyes, blue light glimmering. If Winn could truly disappear…If she could…And if that was not the end of her power—Ruan shivered again. He would think about it later. Now—now he must find his Winn.

            ~Where, oh where, have you wandered, Winn?~ 

 * * *

As he penetrated deep into east Melas, Ruan studied the gradually decaying environment. Pock-marked, painted women skulked, leering, on corners, whole lots filled with the homeless' tents and shanties, the dreary, ominous buildings…

Glancing up, he realized he'd subconsciously parked in front of Winn's pale yellow building. 

 He strolled up to the unlovely cemented stoop, and stepped through the unlocked doors, ignoring the filthy, unconscious man sprawled inside the doorway. Inside, it was dark, dank, with an undeniable odor of mold and old urine. Ruan studied yellowed list of names encased in a mangled steel frame tacked onto the water-stained wall to the left. "Fallou" was missing. Frowning almost imperceptibly, Ruan stalked up to the messy front desk, where a beer-bellied woman, her spindly, veiny legs propped up on the counter, dozed, a bit of her coarse, peroxide-dyed blonde hair dangling in her mouth. 

            "Excuse me." He waited. She dozed. Louder, "Excuse me." She started and almost fell out of her chair.

            "Yeah, wait a minute, will you? she mumbled roughly, and ducked under the desk, apparently looking for something on the floor. When she looked up, her faded, watery blue eyes took in his tall, lean form, enveloped in close-fitting faded black shirt, worn jeans. Her eyes widened with admiration when they reached his stoic face, absorbing the perfect, elegant slope of cheekbone and jaw, the sculpted dip and arch of lip. 

She smirked. "I can tell. You an't from this neighborhood, eh? Eh?" She snorted with laughter. Ruan narrowed his eyes, his lips quirked up slightly. "So, mister, what can I do for you?" 

            He could feel her eyes stuck, leeches, on his face. "I'm looking for a Winn—Winnen Fallou. She wasn't on your list there." He wanted very badly to wrap his hands around that withered throat and... His eyes glinted.

            She caught the flash in his eyes and misinterpreted it. She grinned knowingly. He wanted to hit her. "Ah. So that's why you're here, is it? Slumming? I suppose that's the nice word for what you yuppies do down here, eh?" She snickered to herself. "You're too late, you know. That girl's staying somewhere else for a couple days, mister."

            Ruan widened his eyes just a fraction. "Could you…please…tell me what room she had before she left?"

            "Well, lemme see, here, since you're nice to look at…eh…Fallou…Room 63. Third floor." She grinned.

            Without bothering to thank the woman, Ruan spun on his heel and ran up the stairs. Soon, he stood outside Winn's door, and arranged his almost excited face into an impassive mask. The door was unlocked; he stepped inside the single apartment room, his gaze sweeping swiftly, coolly over the clean shabbiness of her home. His eyes rested on the corner where Winn perched carefully, her head reclined against the wall behind her, hair for once out of her face, eyes closed. 

He made his way to her cautiously, silently. But he had just knelt by her side when her large black eyes snapped open and, seeing him, she jumped into a crouch across from him, ready to flee. She stared at him, eyes huge and bottomless, something close to disgust twisting her mouth, cheeks ashen.

            Ruan fought not to smile, and kept his face cool, quiet. In a low, even voice, he murmured soothingly, "Winn. What happened earlier today was…unfortunate." His eyes widened fractionally. "Please accept my apologies—Winn—and do not let the matter disrupt our assignment."

            In the dim light, Ruan watched her swallow and lick her dry lips. Her cheeks regained their usual rose-water color, and though they remained slightly twisted with distaste, her lips recovered some of their usual rosy tint. 

Winn's mind raced—what to do—what— "Yeah," she whispered hoarsely. "Fine." Her eyes flashed—should she tell him? About that—? No. ~No no no no no.~ She would work with bad Ruan; she would not confide in him. 

            Ruan narrowed his eyes. He could feel something different in her, something feverish— He nodded and ignored her new coldness. "Then let's go."

            "Yes. Let's go," Winn repeated.     

* * *

It was almost dark as Ruan drove them into east Melas, an older area whose tall, brick buildings were dingy, and crumbling, the doorways dark, alleys numerous and slick. 

            This place was where the outcasts fled…and though humans also found refuge here, this place was the unofficial, unspoken headquarters of Night World outcasts…definitely an auspicious place to start, according to Ruan.   

            He parked and led his partner down a dark flight of stairs descending from the sidewalk, down to a smallish black door. When they stood in the dusky area before the door, Ruan stopped and turned towards Winn. She could hear—and feel—the faint, dense, bass musical vibration radiating from behind the door.

            In a hushed voice, Winn whispered, "What is this?"

            Bending close, Ruan muttered, "A—club…" Winn raised her eyebrows. "No name, no signs." 

            "Ah." 

            He continued in a low voice, "The Marquéd don't…come here." At Winn's questioning stare, he elaborated, "Many—most—of us wouldn't be caught dead here. A—human brought me to the place years ago." He paused, eyes narrowed and wolfish, then went on, "You and I will scout the place out a little, see how it's laid out, if they're any extra rooms." He turned to the door and added in a growl, "Don't give yourself away." 

Winn felt a thrill of excitement shoot through her and tried not to show it. She nodded slightly and Ruan pushed the door open to reveal a dark, human-filled room. 

Loud, vibratory music set the throbbing beat for the numerous, swiveling, whirling dancers; the humid scent of perspiring bodies was acrid to Winn's sensitive nostrils. She drew in a breath and watched Ruan disappear into the thick crush of bodies. 

She studied the room closely, the dark, mirror-covered walls, the intense, flashing lights, the high ceiling, the throbbing music. Her eyes flashed—there, in the corner, a dark hallway branching out of a tiny niche on the far right side of the room…maybe Ruan hadn't seen it. Pushing through the dense crowd, she felt arms, hands pluck at her coat, close on her wrists. Shrugging them off with a shudder, she finally reached the edge of the hallway. 

Narrowing her eyes, she scanned the room behind her, making sure no one watched her, and silently slipped into the dark hallway. Her sharp glance took in a dark red door just a few feet ahead, with a small sign warding off trespassers. With a soft sigh, she grasped the doorknob, twisted it and gently pushed the door open—unlocked?—and stepped into another dimly lit corridor, doors and other passages branching off from it. She put her ear to the first door on the left, listening for voices, noises, breathing, whatever—nothing. She tried the handle—locked. She crept down another, darker hallway, and searched for a door along the walls. Finally, she spotted a handle, set her ear against the door, heard nothing, and, with a thrill of excitement, found the door unlocked. 

The smallish room was cool, the faint, bluish light coming from a small blue globe dangling from the ceiling. At first, as she glanced over the simple, chunky furniture, Winn thought the room was empty, and slunk over to a wide desk she saw pushed up against the corner to her far left. She tugged gently at the knobs, trying to pull the top drawer open. Suddenly, she was aware of a flicker of movement to her right and a *presence*. Sucking in her breath she spun around—all went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry about the big fat wait…I was positively drenched in homework and all of *that*. So…I hope you enjoy this next bit o' junk…Read on…!

galaktis: Thanks again, old chum…do enjoy!

Guin: Hello there…I'm so glad you're liking the story…and Winn…Thank you for the marvelous review…I fall in an unconscious mound of wooden toys at your feet…please read on…!

Tamashii: Muchisimas gracias…you know, I forget what I was comparing rice-pudding to, so I'll pretend that it was reviews. Compare reviews and chocolate? They are both surpassingly welcome…and if you get too much of either you end up knee deep in cellulite…and knee deep cellulite is totally welcome as long as it comes with tons and tons of reviews…so…keep 'em coming—please? Read on…!

neona-deniker: Hola! I'm super happy you like the story…and I will wring my brain out for all sorts of neat-o additions to Smith's theories…Thanks so much for reviewing and please read on…! 

fin: Right on both counts, I think…Ruan's an ass, and he's a cute ass…and, well, I think we can infer that he has a cute ass… : ) which is a-okay with me…Thanks a ton-'o-honey for reviewing…read on…!

Dragon Fire: I'm curious. Are you into bondage? I'm super happy you're liking the story…and I got s'more…Thanks for your altogether—ah—peppy—review…read on…!

Dulce Ambrosia: Hullo! I'm surpassingly happy you're enjoying the story...thanks for the review…please do read on…!

Zabella: Ah ha ha ha ha…! Sorry. Just had to get the sinister laugh in *somewhere*. I've got s'more cliffhangers in my handy dandy idea belt, so hold onto your hippopotamus! Thanks for reviewing, and read on…!

Anonymous: Nice to meet you, Anonymous. Glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for reviewing, and please do read on…!

Chapter 5: The Marquéd

As soon as he entered the club, Ruan headed towards the bar, through the stinking, slinking throng of whirling humans, holding his face impassive, but mild, as sweaty hands plucked at his bare arms. 

He reached the bar soon enough, and slid into a stool at the far left end of the ruby-colored, kidney-shaped counter. The bartender was vampirae, he was sure of it. The young woman's short, spiky blue hair, and her astonishingly unattractive features—he didn't think he'd ever seen a vampire who was quite so homely—were unfamiliar; and yet, he could feel the fine hairs on his arms prick up in response to her aura of power, which he could feel, strangely enough, from ten feet away. It was palpable. She was powerful, in an untapped sort of way—she had not fully grasped her powers yet. But her power—it made him shiver. 

Studying her irregularly-molded face, Ruan could easily understand why she'd been overlooked by the Marquéd…Lif had formed quite the attachment to his canons of beauty. Even Winn wasn't bad-looking. Pale, sure, a little sickly-looking, most definitely, but she had potential, he could see that. He wasn't blind. Evidently, Lif saw that too, in addition to her natural power. But to overlook this blue-haired young woman, who could prove to be such a valuable source of power? Ruan was struck—though not quite surprised—by how…stupid…it was.  

            The woman was turned toward him again—she glanced up and, noticing him, ambled over, a thoroughly curious expression on her ill-favored face. Her twinkling grey eyes reached his face, and to Ruan's amusement and fascination, her own features remained purely quizzical—she was obviously unfazed by his looks. 

This was new to him. He had always, like all of the Marquéd, at first unintentionally, and later deliberately, affected—everyone—with his looks. He was not used to this—this ingenuousness. 

            The blue-haired girl stepped up before him. "Haven't seen you around here before," she said, an inquiring note in her wonderfully husky voice, "and I have a great mind for faces. How'd you find us? We're not exactly well-known…"

            Ruan smiled, blue-lit irises glimmering, and replied smoothly, "Good friend of mine told me about the place. Thought I'd check it out…I came with a friend, but…"he trailed off and scanned the flickering, thrashing movement of the club, "…I guess she wandered off."

            She nodded and smiled a little, "Yeah, that can happen a lot around here. Lots of…interesting characters out there. Name's Shelley."

            "Nuar," he returned with a friendly smile. 

            "Well, Nuar, what can I get for you?"

            "Ah—" he hadn't had humandrink for years—"Mineral water. Please."

            Grey eyes narrowing shrewdly, Shelley murmured, "Are you sure? We have quite a …selection here."

            Ruan glanced sharply at her—she couldn't know—not when he could conceal his vampirism so meticulously, effortlessly—did she suspect—?

A hesitant, untrained voice whispered in his head, ~~I know what you are. I know you know what I am. Are you *sure* you want mineral water?~~_ Ruan held himself still, intrigued, almost…eager...he wanted to play— _

Ruan replied, eyes slit-like and gleaming with blistering heat, in clear mindspeak, ~~I'm famished.~~

_            Her face contorted with pain—heat—his mindspeak, he knew, was caustic—it burned, blackened the mind— _

A moment later, the tightness in Shelley's face eased, perspiration stood out on her forehead in delicate droplets. Exhaling heavily, she gazed evenly at him, still perceptibly shaken, and smiled hesitantly. "What—," she began and broke off. "That was…I've never experienced that—how—?" She shook her head as though erasing the reverberations of pain Ruan knew still sliced at the mind.

She reached under the counter. When she straightened back up, her face was once again free of uncertainty, and fear. She held out a bottle of something thick and purple-dark. "Our specialty," she grinned—though her grey eyes flashed with something—cold— and poured a tall glass of the stuff. 

 Ruan glanced at it placidly, eyes cobalt and opaque. In a blur his long, wiry hand closed around the glass and brought it to his lips; he took a long drink, long throat working. 

It was blood, obviously, but it had been thickened and spiced, or something. He hated old blood—he couldn't stand blood more than a few minutes old—but this stuff was…delectable.

He drained the glass.

Setting the glass down, licking his lips, he glanced up at Shelley, who studied him expectantly, and smiled.

"Good." 

"Thought you'd like it." 

"What is this stuff?" he asked. 

Shelley, now grinning, satisfied, at his reaction, replied, ~~It hasn't got a name. I'm glad you enjoy it—and it'll take the hunger if you drink enough_.~__~ _

Suddenly, her face grew serious and almost shuttered. She continued, a little nervously, ~~Nuar, do you have…a, that is to say, ah, do you have a…group?~~ She swallowed, and went on, ~~You know, an organization? Do you belong to one? Because here, we—~~

            "Shelley!" A male voice burst sharply into their silent conversation. Shelley spun around, flushing, embarrassed, and Ruan looked up to find a steel-eyed man of medium height behind the counter, shooting daggers at the young woman. Shelley stood arrested, sheepish, by what Ruan conjectured was the man's voice in her brain. 

He decided not to eavesdrop.  

            The man—vampire—abruptly turned to him. As the man's penetrating gaze bore into his own, a faint searching expression on his face, Ruan threw up unobtrusive, grey-walled shields in his mind. Ruan sensed that this guy was quite powerful; perhaps not tremendously or prodigiously so, but he certainly held enough power to frighten the weaker members of the Marquéd. And even the weakest of the Marquéd, according to Lif, at least, were formidable. 

            A few seconds later, the man leaned back, satisfied. Ruan's face remained impassive. So the man hadn't seen through his façade.

            "I'm Red," the man stated gruffly and held out his hand.

            Leisurely, Ruan shook the hand and replied, "I'm Nuar. I've already met—Shelley." Damn it. Where was Winn? "My friend and I came to check the place out."

            Red chuckled roughly, steel-colored eyes flashing, and a deep, powerful, though not overwhelming, voice filled Ruan's skull. ~~No need to shirk words with me…Ruan Ferrin. You're here to join the rebels. Why?~~   

            Carefully filtering the natural heat out of his telepathic voice, Ruan replied evenly, ~~Why? Why not? I needed a change. As you probably realize, I was formerly a member of the Marquéd…I needed a change.~~  __

_            ~~And your—friend?~~_

_            ~~Same reason…a youngling, and already she has tired of the Marquéd's conduct…~~ _

_            "I see." He nodded once, brusquely. "Come, Ruan." Red glanced around at the busy bar and gestured Ruan to follow him. With a quick, sharp smile at Shelley, whose lips silently formed his name, Ruan sauntered after him, behind the counter, and through a door at the end of the bar. He followed Red through a short hallway and into a room at the end of it. Red turned to Ruan, a closed expression on his face, gestured at a faded, chocolate-colored couch behind him and inquired mildly, "Is that your friend?"_

            Ruan looked at the couch and realized a person had been dumped on it—a very small person bundled up in a shabby coat—a girl with wild, black hair—Winn.

Flawless face expressionless, Ruan looked up at Red and replied smoothly, "Yes. That's her. What happened?"

            Red's steely eyes flashed menacingly. "I caught her creeping about in a room closed to customers. What was she doing in there, do you think? She was trying to open a desk. I think she was looking for something…don't you? And what was she looking for, I wonder? Papers? Money? What was she looking for, Ruan Ferrin?"

            Ruan stared back at Red, eyes gone a deep, unclouded blue—starless, midnight sky—and answered coldly, "Did you really think we'd join you in ignorance? What if you turned out to be some group of imposters? Winn was checking out—trying to check out—your background. Like I said, we needed a change." 

            Red's face was still hard, his creased mouth set, but his eyes were clearer, less acerbic now. Gradually, as Ruan stared evenly back into his eyes while he digested this possibility, Red's forehead smoothed out, and the corners of his gruff mouth quirked up. Nodding, Red held out his hand and said, "We're the real thing, kid. You can trust us."

            Smiling a little, Ruan shook his hand.

* * *

            ~~Swish. Tap. Thump. Swish. Swish. Tap…~~ 

It was dark when Winn finally forced her eyes open—she groaned as icepicks and sledgehammers promptly assaulted her brain. As she clasped her head tightly with both hands, she realized—vaguely—that she was lying on something very soft, very cushioned—a couch. 

As the throbbing pain gradually subsided, she remembered in flashes her "infiltration" of the club backrooms, and being knocked unconscious with something large and wooden. 

Growling, she made to tug at her expected trusses. She sat back. There were no trusses—no manacles, no bondage of any sort. She lay very still and pondered why she wasn't trussed; she *was* a prisoner, correct? Had she not been violently opposed? Yes, she most certainly had. So why was she free? Or…was she free?  

            ~~Swish. Swish. Tap. Thump. Swish. Thump.~~ Noises…noises…what were those noises? 

She stiffened against the softness of the sofa. Nostrils flaring, she bit down on her bottom lip; her eyes darted, scanning the shadowed room. She could clearly see that it was decorated simply, with a lumpy cot in the far corner, a lamp with a shade made of colored—blue?—glass, a dresser, and a chest made of dark, veiny wood, pushed against the other far corner. Pupils dilated, she stared at the wall to her right and could make out what appeared to be a thin, linen divide between her room and the one next to it. Eyes wide—they looked like great dark holes in her pale face—she stared intently at the gauzy curtain, through to the murkiness beyond. She made out the ghostly outlines of two tall figures—human, male figures, she realized—moving with preternatural speed in what appeared to be complex martial arts combinations. Dim, bluish light played on the figures' faces; on one, she noted, the dusky glow accentuated the gentle slope of high, prominent cheekbones and finely cast features. She realized one of them was bad Ruan. 

            Practicing. They were—practicing? Winn relaxed, slightly, against the couch. Releasing her lip, she tasted something sweet, and wild—blood. Licking her lips, she closed her eyes and buried her face in her hair.

 The other one—the shorter one—his face was unfamiliar. ~~A vampire…an *old* vampire…~~ Winn thought. His face, Winn recalled, was weathered, the skin leathery, with deep creases running from edge of nose to corner of mouth—old in human years, as well as in vampire years. Was this natural? None of the Marquéd were anywhere near his human-age—in fact, she thought, they were all in their late adolescence. Odd.    

Who was this new one? she wondered. ~~He must be one of the—the rebels…But who…who…~~ She burrowed deeper into her hair. ~~Something…there's something…this new one…something…~~

~~Shhhh…Quiet…quiet…now…~~

Who—? No, no matter…quiet now. Time to…sleep.

* * *

            Someone was watching her. 

            She could feel it; an oppressive *presence* was near—and it was watching her still and silent form. Her skin prickled. 

            She lay as still as she could; she fought to appear relaxed while every nerve in her body screamed with fear—with warning. Under the thick folds of worn fabric that enveloped her arms, her skin tingled; the gauzy hairs rose instinctively. 

            ~~Watching watching watching someone someone watching…~~ Who was it? Who watched? Who who who? Why? Winn was motionless—no muscle twitched; her breathing remained slow, and regular. Perhaps if she did not move—did not appear wake—perhaps then the *presence* would leave…what, who was it? Why did it watch? ~~Bad…it's bad...~~ she thought. ~~…Bad…bad…and…familiar. There was something—familiar—~~ 

            Suddenly, the *presence* was close—very close. It hovered at the edge of the sofa; ~~Close close—too…too close…~~ her nerves shrieked—the *sound* was deafening—

            It—he?—the *presence* was—human? Vampirae?—moved closer. Winn could feel it—he—crouch beside the sofa; the muted rustle of clothing echoed raucously through her skull—she heard the first low hum of steady breathing. 

            ~~Still! Be still! Still…Still…Still still still still…~~ her feverish brain screamed even as the face ducked closer and inspected the curve of her neck, and jaw, the only features visible through the dark riot of curls strewn about her face. ~~Still still still still still still still still~~ A cool, dry breath whispered across the bare skin and suddenly Winn was chilled to the core. She knew—*knew*—the face hung only inches above the soft indentation below her ear—a soft indrawn breath—a cool, hard hand swept the dark mass of hair from her face—the hand hovered a fraction of an inch above the skin of her brow—

            ~~Mustn't touch…no…no…no…don't touch don't touch don't don't don't…~~ She knew—she *knew*—something dreadful would happen if he touched her—when he touched her—she *knew*! His hand twitched. 

            With a violent, instinctive movement beyond any mental control, Winn tried to jerk away—away—from the hand, her eyes snapping open, face oddly expressionless except for a quivering wildness about the lips and eyes. 

            It was Ruan.

            She registered that a millisecond before the tips of his fingers and her jaw made contact, the ill-timed, ill-coordinated violence of her movement causing her to brush against the outstretched limb. 

She was in another world.

She seemed to be suspended in shadow; she saw nothing—nothing—except a tumultuous blur of murky red, purple and black—and Ruan. Ruan—tall, pale, his vibrant, rumpled hair blending richly with the dark, wild color surrounding him. His eyes—his eyes were so bright, so blindingly blue—they seemed to blaze with some ghastly frozen heat—suspended in nothingness, Winn shuddered. She couldn't stop shaking. She was so *cold*. His fingers—she could still feel them, held so gently to her jaw—released a cold into her body so dark and pure and dense it *burned*.            

The point of contact *burned*. 

            Chaos—her mind was total chaos. ~~What is this…what…what…what is this…what…~~ She wanted to scream—scream—

            [Shhhh. What's wrong, Winn?]

            The thought—it was more of a voice, a voice so integral, so primal, it hurt to hear it—was so, so *pure*. 

            ~~Wrong wrong wrong something is wrong wrong something something—this this this this wrong wrong wrong…~~

            Ruan's eyes glinted. [Wrong, Winn? This is wrong?]

            Winn winced. She couldn't stop shivering. She shook her head, and took a deep, shuddering breath…exhaled. Gathering her wits, she attempted to answer in the same pure voice…She shoved all of her fear and instinctive repulsion into one corrosive thought and flung it at him: [***Yes.***]

            Shockingly, Ruan suddenly blanched to a bone-white color even paler than his usual. Winn could feel the thought reverberate through him—she could feel Ruan's uncertainty at the sheer force of the thought—he was—surprised—at the power. And the power, she could sense, hurt him.

            A moment later, Ruan had regained his natural pallor. Brow smooth and unconcerned again, he looked up at Winn, eyes narrowed, smiling softly. [Do you know what's happening Winn? Have you got any idea what this is?]

            Eyes wide, Winn shook her head slowly.

            [I can see your thoughts, Winn. Are you frightened? I think you are, Winn.] The smile faded. [We're soulmates, Winn.]

Winn sucked in a breath. What—what? She shook her head tentatively.

[Yes, Winn. We're soulmates. This—all of this—shit—means we're soulmates, Winn.]

She shook her head a little more harshly.

[Yes. Yes, Winn, we are. Soulmates, Winn. Do you know what that means, Winn?] 

She shook her head violently, shuddering intensely. No. No.

            [It means I can control you, Winn.] The corners of his beautiful mouth quirked up. [You belong to me, Winn. I *own* you.]

            Winn's whole body rocked, her chest so tight with sick loathing and quiet rage she couldn't breathe. ~~No. No. No no no no no no no. He doesn't. We're not. No. He doesn't own me. He doesn't own—own—~~

            [Yes, Winn, I do.]

            ~~No!~~ All of a sudden, she moved into an odd, crouched position. Holding her head in her hands, digging her fingers into her skull, she reached for the rage and utter revulsion amassed deep inside her brain, and concentrated it into one deafening thought: [***No.***]

            Ruan's eyes widened—

            Winn saw white—

            She woke up she didn't know how long later stretched across the sofa, with Ruan's forehead thrust against her own. Her fingers were clawed. Ruan, unconscious, knelt beside the couch. Tangled in the hair just behind and below her ear were his long, sinewy hands, and his lips, unknowingly pressed against the corner of her mouth, were dry. She felt sick. 

            Hurriedly shoving him away, Winn heaved herself off the sofa. Hot and cold shivering took hold of her body as she stood and stared at Ruan kneeling against the sofa. She could kill him—he was unconscious—he couldn't stop her—she could kill him— No. No. No, she wouldn't. He was the monster—she would not be the monster. No. No.        

            She felt dizzy. Spinning around, she began hurrying away from him, through the linen divide—away—

She was almost to the hall when she felt Ruan revive. She forced herself not to glance back, and continued on, at a faster pace. 

Ruan smiled mildly. [I can control you, Winn.] 

Please comment…! I've erected shrines to all who have, so please do, and I'll erect a super shiny one for you! : )


	6. Chapter 6

I apologize from the deepest, most profound depths of my soul (where I keep the apricot jelly) for the horrendously long wait. For the past ::gasp:: month, the proverbial shit has been hitting, without pause, the fan (in other words, I had loads of school business to attend to.) Please forgive the good Mogget of oat-filled joy, I implore you. 

Double chocolate thanks for the reviews…

fin: Yeah…Winn was wigging out over the whole swirl-y darkness element, I think. Her past will come out in more detail a teeny bit later, but if you want an extremely brief summary, its somewhere in Chapter 2, I believe; basically, she had an abusive family situation, so she ran away. On the whole Lif thing, all I can say is: "We'll see." So, we'll see. Read on…!

Sweetie Pie: Bang Bang! (I'm shooting, with a squirt gun, into the air).

Dulce Ambrosia: Gracias…Read on…!

Zabella: Personally, I have found that shiny objects hold a certain allure for me, too. Read on…

Dragon Fire: You're on the right track, my semi-frighteningly manic, vowel-obsessive chum! Read on…!

galaktis: I dig your insight! I comprehend your meaning utterly and it's super acute that you've noticed the whole thought-process element I'm trying to put into the story…Most excellent. Please do read on…!

angelphire: That I shall. Read on…!!!!   

Chapter Six: The Marquéd

~~They watch me…Do they see me? I watch them…I wonder, do I see them? Pretty girl, pretty girl, are you watching me? Pretty boy, pretty boy, am I watching you?~~ She sighed. A rumpled, wet day. Sallow grey skies dripped…dripped. Dripped. Mara hunched deeper into the soggy, plastic-draped lean-to set against a rough cement wall. Cars sped by in dripping, multihued blurs, spattering grime and rainwater across the clear plastic curtain hanging over the shack's entrance. Damn cars. 

Mara rubbed her eyes, stroked the sunken orbs; she caressed her papery, crinkled cheeks, probing the deep hollow between cheekbone and jaw. Stringy, waxy hair clung wetly to her shriveled throat and ears; Mara stared at her hands. Once, so long, long ago, her hands were slender, soft, smooth, and tipped with pink-flushed, oval fingernails; she flexed her fingers. Now sunburned, pock-marked, and ridged with black grime, her hands were scarred, gnarled testimony to the life she'd led for the past seventeen years.

She laughed harshly. ~~I watch them. No one watches me. No one…~~ The smile faded. Blinking, Mara noticed a small, bundled up creature hurrying past her den. Who was it? Greedily, she snatched a quick look at its face. A pale, translucent thing, engulfed by a gentle quivering, her face an ashy, bluish blur set with two great, dark smudges for eyes. A dark, wild mass of curls framed the ashen, elfin face. Mara narrowed her eyes, intrigued. ~~That one is peculiar…all hazy edges…something—odd…~~ 

"Pssssst!" Mara hissed.

Winn flinched and jerked around. She stared into the murky hovel; her sharp glance absorbed a frightening scene: there, squatting in shadow, was a crone-like woman, festooned in sodden rags, greasy yellow-white hair framing a ravaged, though strong-featured, face. Bright, yellow eyes, glazed with the varnish of old age and probable senility, stared back at her—into her. Lips tightening, Winn made as though to back away.

"Stop!" Mara shrilled, reaching out with a gnarled, spotted claw. "Stop…yes." 

Winn's eyes narrowed, but she stopped. "What? What do you want?"

Mara paused, thought, mumbled to herself. Then her head jerked up and she gazed almost lucidly at Winn. "Want? I?" She shook her head slowly, craftily. "I don't think it is I who wants…" Winn's eyes widened fractionally, "…something. I think—yes, I do—that it is *you* who wants…something." Mara sighed. "What do you want, I wonder—wonder I do…"

"I don't th—"

"…that you want *something.*" Mara gazed up at her, at her eyes. "There is something about the eyes…frightened, are you? Not of I. Who then, Winn? Something happened, did it? With a—boy? Yes. Yes, it was a *boy*…"

Winn drew in her breath harshly, and murmured quietly, "How do you know my name—my name—How did you know? And about the—boy?"

Mara chortled gleefully. "How do I know?" Her odd, yellow eyes narrowed. "I know. I lay curled in the womb and I *knew*." Her eyes cleared, brightened. "There is something, Winn…about you…he is strange, yes? And," Mara's lips twisted eagerly, "he is *cruel*?"

Winn opened her mouth, but no sound came.

"Yes, yes…I knew. He is strange, he is cruel—he is your *soulmate*?"

Again, Winn could not speak.

"Eh? Hee hee! I knew it—I knew!" She licked her lips. "I know what you want, Winn…'deed I do." She ducked closer, whispered conspiratorially, "Freedom? You would be free of—*him*? Yes, yes. I will rip him—rip him with my nails…my lovely nails—" Her cheeks flushed excitedly. "I can free you, Winn. From him. Would you like that? Winn?"

Winn was trembling, but not from fear, not from anxiety—from what? She shook herself. What was she thinking? This—hag—was mad. Insane. ~~But what if I could get rid of him?~~ she wondered, involuntarily. ~~He would be *gone*…~~  Staring at a point somewhere above the woman's left shoulder she thought back briefly to just hours before; running away; she saw, too vividly, Ruan's terrible, white, perfect face smiling so softly, mildly, fearsomely at her; she felt, with a tremor, the soft, dry perfection of his lips pressed, unconsciously, against the corner of her mouth. And, most profoundly—most terribly—she heard those words echoing, the clamor building in intensity, in her brain—

~~[I can control you, Winn…I can control you….Winn…I can control…you…Winn…]~~

With a sudden jerk, Winn met the woman's gleaming yellow-ochre gaze. "*Yes,*" she whispered.

Mara's smile was small and sharp. "Give me your hand, dearie. Just so. Ah," she sighed, holding Winn's pale, bony fingers in her own gnarled fist. "So pretty. Pretty hands, pretty. I had pretty hands too, once…" She frowned. "I was beautiful! You wouldn't think it now—no, no—but I was pretty enough. Enough…"

While the old woman mumbled, Winn closed her eyes. ~~When *he's* gone…when he is gone...I'll leave Melas! I'll go to New York, or—I'll go away. He doesn't *control* me.~~ Her eyelids twitched. ~~Will he be—dead? Dead.~~ In a burst of color and touch, she recalled the feel of his dry, sensuous mouth against her skin. Eyes snapping open, she suddenly became aware that her cheeks were burning and that her skin was painfully sensitive; her senses felt like great, tender wounds—so finely tuned they stung. 

Mara frowned. The girl wasn't listening—the stupid, silly chicklet! Staring with that brainless, dazed gawp. Stupid girl. With a muffled growl she tugged sharply at the girl's lax hand, effectively jerking her out of her waking trance. 

Startled and irritated, nerve endings in her fingers zinging wildly, Winn returned her attention to the woman. 

"You must listen, always!" the woman insisted querulously, jerking on her hand once more for good measure—she was surprisingly strong. "If you want *him* gone, you must always listen…or you will have regrets, and many of them!" She paused, looking up at Winn with a thoughtful expression on her thin, wrinkled face. "So. First, I will tell you…my name." She grinned furtively, and continued, "My name is…Mara. Mara Paskoff…is my name." She nodded sagely. "Secondly, we must discuss payment. Yes, yes. Vulgar, yes, I know. Don't you think I know this? I do. So, girl, what do I want? Hmm?"

Winn gazed back at the bright, almost feverish, yellow eyes, and shook her head.

"Don't you know, chicklet?" Mara smiled a secret little smile and beckoned Winn closer. "Closer, closer…yes." Speaking into Winn's ear, she whispered conspiratorially, "I want the *boy.*" 

Winn shivered at the hot breath in her ear. "The boy?" 

"*The boy*! I want the boy! You will bring him, chicklet…yes, you will…to me. Now then. Shall we begin, chicklet?" 

Winn didn't answer.

"Winn…pretty Winn. You must bring him to me *first*...yes." Mara shook her hand.

"Yes," Winn muttered. "Fine." 

"Goodbye, then, chicklet. For now." Mara looked away from the girl's dark wound-like eyes and released the pale hand.

"For now," Winn conceded softly, walking slowly away.

* * *

Where was she? Ruan's face was sharp, perfect, and without expression. She'd wandered off again. 

He glided down a hall in the dusky backrooms of the club, and thought back…She'd thought he was unconscious…he was not. Eyes flashing, he recalled the nervous, frightened tremor that perpetually shook her slight body—she was always so fearful…He remembered how her fragile face had quivered against his mouth…

"Hello."

Tense, Ruan whipped around—his skin prickled from the wave-like aura of power that approached—and then relaxed. "Hello, Shelley."

Shelley grinned, her wonderfully homely face brightening almost to beauty. "So, *Ruan*, I hear you and your friend have joined us."

"So soon?"

"You know what they say: tête-à-tête is anathema to secrets."

Ruan smiled slightly. "Like video to radio stars?" 

"Precisely."

Smile fading, he murmured, "Shelley…"

"Still here."

"Really? Have you seen my friend, Shelley?"

"I believe I saw the back of her head…Tiny, lots of curly, black hair, correct?"

"Sure. Did you see where she was going?"

"Out the door. That's all I saw…Why, Ruan, has your princess fair done gone and escaped?" She looked questioningly up at him.

Ruan fixed his icy gaze on her large, grey eyes. She shivered and thought she wouldn't be surprised if he had that effect on most everyone. He smiled gently, but she saw something not quite—benign—glint in those lovely, frosted irises. Pretending she saw nothing amiss, Shelley shrugged, smiling wryly, and left him to himself.

Face once more in its usual stoic repose, Ruan turned a corner and strolled through yet another dim corridor. He wondered whether Winn would return…recalling the intense terror plastered across her ash-colored face, he doubted it. He had an inkling she was used to running away. A tiny frown appeared for an instant between his brows; he would have to find her, bring her back…it sounded familiar. 

~~She's mine, I suppose, but she's not *mine*…Why have you wandered away, Winn?~~ 

He stopped walking and leaned against the chilled, glossy wall. If he could train her, if he could *fix* her…He was tired of Lif's diluted brand of control. If he could train Winn to harness her power, provided it was what he thought it was, they could leave the Marquéd and Lif would have no power against them. He didn't want Winn, but if they were bound, he recognized the danger of leaving her to her own ends. Her lot was his lot; sure, it was selfish—but he never pretended he wasn't. With Winn's safety—if not sanity—were ensured, he could leave the Marquéd…go somewhere new…do something different. It was true, what he had told Red. He needed a change.

Please do review, comment, expound existentialist and stoic philosophy, whatever…I love it all…and best of all, if you review, I'll not only erect a super shiny obelisk for you—I'll give you a scary bunny too! : )


	7. Chapter 7

Wow. This update was faster than death. I love myself right now.

Muchisimas gracias to reviewers…

neona-deniker: Hallo! I'm utterly sorry for taking such a long time…do not fear, though. I will continue to vomit up more story—at varying rates—for quite a while. Mara's not in this chapter, but she'll come up in the next one…As to what's going to happen with her, that remains to be seen. He he. Thanks a ton for reviewing and read on…!

galaktis: Hullo! I missed my reviewer-chums too. : (  I'll try to be more timely from now on…Yeah, these characters are freaks…it's kinda like I'm on a sustained trip when I write about them. But I love 'em…thanks for sharing the love…and thanks for reviewing…Read on…!

Sweetie Pie: ::is in the process of completely wigging out:: Ack. You scared me there for a sec with your big bad book o' spells. Yeah, Mara's a creep. So's everyone else… : ) Thanks so so so much for reviewing…Read on…!

Lady Blackfire: Yeah, Ruan's me man, too. He puts the "cute" in "cute bunny" (don't ask). Thanks super-a-ton for reviewing and please do read on…!

Tamashii: Hello…! Don't worry; your shrine is ridiculously shiny….Oh, and don't worry about the whole Red thing either—they're different Reds with the same uber-cool name! A gajillion thanks…Read on…!

Chapter 7: The Marquéd 

Winn stepped quietly, cat-soft, and warily out of the icy rain and into the club, shivering from the cold drops of rainwater dripping down her spine. Immediately, Winn was immersed in dark punctuated by glittering staccato lights, surrounded by deep, pulsing music, and human—as well as vampire—bodies moving fluidly, rhythmically; she stared, transfixed, at the scene—like a beating heart, it throbbed darkly. Oddly enough, though Winn was unwaveringly sure that there certainly were vampirae amongst the humans, she could not detect them with eyesight alone. It was more a simple knowing, with the mind and instinct. Based on what she had observed at the meeting of the Marquéd, those whom she identified were not what she would call typical vampirae; their faces, for the most part, were ordinary, not ravishing, and sometimes even homely. To her sustained surprise, Winn noted a general sort of pleasantness in many of those faces. Already Winn felt herself relax; the muscles in her neck and back loosened, her face lost some of its tightness. She prepared to enter the bedlam. 

"Excuse me." Winn felt a light tap on her shoulder at the same moment, and jumped a little. She spun around, frowning slightly at the now-chuckling person before her. He was, she saw clearly, even through the darkness and flashing lights, quite tall, lean, his face beautifully molded; his eyes flashed a bright, playful azure, his face narrow, and his chin tapered to an almost elfin point. The hair that curled softly around his jaw was a rich, velvet brown. Her skin prickled. Yes, he was beautiful. 

"Sorry," he chuckled, narrow lips turned up in a friendly smile, "but you looked lonely. Sorry I frightened you."

Vampire. Obviously. "I wasn't frightened," she returned automatically, defensively. 

"Ah. But you were lonely." He smiled broadly, his teeth a perfect, naked white; they gleamed in the flash of strobe lights. He continued, "I'm Jasper." He held his long, finely-fingered hand out. 

 Winn noted a gentle accent to his words—Irish? She examined Jasper's hand, as though to make sure it was safe to handle, and tentatively shook it with her own. "Winn." She released the hand.

"You're new here, aren't you? Of course, we already *know*. You know. About you and that other one, Ruan. Red told us." 

Winn stared at his shoulder. "Yes…I suppose I am. New." Ruan had apparently neglected to mention the status of their membership in the rebel camp—though, recalling their most recent conversation, she could hardly be surprised. 

Nodding slightly, Jasper twisted his long, lean body halfway around and gestured for Winn to follow him. "Come on…Winn. Come meet the rest of us." He began walking towards a smallish group—more vampires—forming a rough circle in a dark, though strobe-light enveloped, niche walled off by several sofas and chairs. Watching his narrow form advance on the group, Winn admitted to herself that this Jasper person was alluring. And if not quite as beautiful as Ruan, he was more—accessible. 

Sighing softly, she decided she probably should get to know these—her new *comrades*—people. Taking a shallow breath and holding it, she followed Jasper.

* * *

Wiping drops of something thick and wine-dark from his mouth, Ruan walked swiftly toward the club, feeling the ground vibrate beneath his feet. Scanning the dark, wet, empty street in front of the building, he ducked through the shabby door, out of the dripping night and into a world of thrashing, vibrating motion.

Eyes gleaming, Ruan stood perfectly still for a moment, watching the writhing, flashing, human movement—bare arms, legs jerked with near violence to the dense beat; everyone's hair—long, matted, short, sharp, waxed, greased, sleek, nonexistent—merged, massed together at once. He took a thin breath and turned away. He liked the…mess…of it all; it was—chaos.

Skimming the throngs edging the sea of dancers, Ruan caught a glimpse of a white, delicate line of jaw and throat—Lips turned up slightly, he glided forward. He dipped—silverfish-like—into the surface of her mind and saw—felt—the nervous, glaring red, bleak, depressing grey, and luminescent violet that edged her thoughts, stain-like. 

Eyes bright, he smiled a sharp smile; Winn was back.

* * *

 As Winn and Jasper stopped at the tiny entrance to the circle, about eight faces turned towards them and smiled. She knew they saw her as sharply and easily as she saw them, even through the dizzying lights and dark. In response to their level stares, her shoulders hunched slightly, and she gazed at them from under her lashes. 

Jasper grinned at them and with a flourish declared, "This, my dear friends, is Winn—" he glanced at her questioningly—

"Fallou," she interjected quickly.

"—Fallou, our lovely new comrade." Straightening, Jasper gestured towards a young woman on Winn's left, her face soft, moon-round and kindly-looking, and continued, "This, Winn, is Fiona." Fiona smiled gently and nodded. Jasper pointed at the white-haired young woman on Fiona's left, and went on, "This is Sri. That guy," he pointed at the almost yellow-eyed young man who wore a rakishly tilted top hat and sat next to Sri, "is Jon." Jon smirked roguishly, sharp white teeth showing. Next was a woman who looked to be in her thirties or so, her brown hair wild and her eyes gentle, "This is Nona," Jasper told her, his eyes losing their lively sparkle for a moment as he gestured at the gentle-seeming woman. Next a slight, very young, black-haired boy—Edmund. There the slender, deaf young woman—Dianne. The smallish, creamy-dark, wiry young man—Solo. And Asher, a very tall, very pale, very bony young man. When Winn met his eyes, he seemed almost to blush. His smile was sweet. 

Winn smiled softly and looked around at the group. "Nice to meet you," she murmured.

Sri grinned and ushered her over while the others dissolved into spirited conversation. Winn sat hesitantly beside Sri on the pleasantly worn, plum-colored sofa, and took a second glance at the others. She felt almost comfortable. They seemed nicer, to be sure, than the Marquéd. *No,* she corrected herself with an immediate fierceness. ~~The Marquéd are good and worthy...*Lif* is worthy…~~

"You're staring again, " Jasper laughed as he settled between Winn and Sri on the plummy sofa, "and at nothing in particular." Winn's eyes snapped back to Sri and Jasper, and felt, to her mortification, her cheeks flush hotly. 

Smiling apologetically, Sri dug her sharp, crimson-tipped nails into Jasper's arm, turned back to Winn, and said, "He's not too bright. I apologize most heartily for him." 

With a sudden movement, Jasper snaked forward towards Sri and snapped at her neck. Sri hissed softly, and smacked his cheeks energetically. Jasper squeaked and jerked away, leaning towards Winn. Turning back to Winn, Sri went on, with a vivid, red-lipped smile, "Do tell us why you're here, Winn. I would be most delighted." 

Winn smiled tentatively in return. She thought quickly—what to say? Should she mention the Marquéd? What...— 

~~Tell them we were formerly of the Marquéd, partridge-little. And that we needed a change. Simply that, and try not to embellish it.~~ 

With a shock, Winn realized it was *his* voice in her head. Hurriedly pushing away her repugnance and distress, Winn answered almost smoothly, "Ruan—and I needed a change. We were…part of the Marquéd—"

Jasper's twinkling, turquoise eyes and Sri's up-tilted black ones narrowed slightly. "Were you?" Jasper murmured softly.

Winn's eyes widened fractionally, and she continued hastily, "Yes—but—like I said, we—Ruan and I—needed a change." Surprising herself, she spat, under her breath, "We were sick of that great-large morass of conceit."

Nodding seriously, though with her eyes still vaguely narrowed, Sri said in a low voice, "Aren't we all?" Jasper nodded lazily. "Anyway, Winn, what *are* your powers? I hear that Ruan—oh, I saw him at the bar—is quite powerful—and old. I could sense it from across the room…I wonder that he hasn't become the leader of anything yet. But what are your powers?" Winn was surprised at the young woman's earnestness—her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her black eyes glittered. 

"Forgive the woman, Winn, she's our resident—well, bitch. She's already caused countless deaths-by-asphyxiation with her questions…" Turning away from Winn, Jasper grinned indolently at the now-outraged Sri. 

Winn's narrow shoulders shrugged in her overlarge, greeny-grey jacket and answered, "I'm…not quite sure." She paused and thought quickly— ~~The other day, though, what about then? When I fucking blinked out of the highway and ended up at my place? Power, was it? Should I tell—No. Not yet—not yet.~~ Snapping back to attention, Winn continued, "I have not discovered them yet, I suppose."

Sri lost the frown and answered, "Mmmm. I don't have that much power—I can receive—you know, understand—telepathy, but I can't send it. I guess that's why I'm into records of power—I don't have much of my own, but at least I've some understanding of it." Sri grinned ruefully. She leaned against Jasper digging her fingers into his hair until he winced. "Jasper, on the other hand, is overburdened with the stuff," Jasper lipped at her wrist, and she tugged at his hair. "He can—oh, let him tell you. He's dying to, anyway." She released his hair; Jasper hissed at her playfully and turned to Winn. 

"Well, Winn, I don't like to brag—no, really, I can't stand it—but when attentions are forced on one so compliant as I, I simply cannot resist." Winn gazed evenly at him. "Yes, well. Firstly, I possess the power of telepathy. Secondly, I maintain the power of influence." At Winn's blank expression, he went on, "You know, I can make humans do—ah—things through mental influence. And thirdly, I'm telekinetic." Winn nodded, mildly dazed. Smiling benignly, Jasper prodded Sri with a bony elbow. 

"Shitty pants!" she squeaked shrilly and sliced at his arm with her nails. Suddenly, she sat up, attempting to gather her shredded dignity; Jasper straightened up in a—characteristically—more leisurely fashion, gazing steadily ahead at something.

 Belatedly, as she followed the direction of their glances, Winn felt a familiar wave of coldly profound power wash over her; the hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. 

"Ruan."

"Partridge-little."

Jasper, looking from Winn to Ruan and back again, an odd look glimmering in his eyes, leaned back into the sofa. "Hello, Ruan. I'm Jasper."

Winn felt her cheeks flush again and held herself impeccably still, fingers clasped in her lap tightening to bloodless white. 

Ruan nodded at Jasper and glanced at the white-haired girl next to him. 

"And I am Sri. Nice to meet you, Ruan. We've heard much about you."

"So I hear," he returned laconically. He looked at Winn; she stared somewhere past his left cheek. Studying her, he noted the fevered glow burned into her cheek, the opaque stillness of her dark eyes. ~~I don't want you.~~ The acerbic thought came involuntarily; he saw, with mild interest, Winn automatically absorb the thought. Her sharply-boned face went white, the rosewater flush receding entirely from her lips and cheeks, though her eyes retained their dull, clouded calm. 

~~Nor did I want you, Ruan.~~ Winn finally met his gaze. ~~But here we are.~~ A gentle tremor shook her. ~~And until we *finish* this job, we're mired.~~

~~Then let's get the job done quickly, shall we?~~ A bluish cold glinted in his eyes.

~~Let's.~~

Sri and Jasper exchanged quizzical glances. Something was quite obviously off with Winn and Ruan. The electric tension between them was…palpable. Sri felt vaguely disturbed by this Ruan and his cold eyes, frigid beauty; she wasn't the most apt at detecting aura from vampirae, but even she could feel his inherently serpentine, perhaps wicked, tangibly malevolent persona. She glanced at Winn and was troubled further by the colorlessness of her face, and especially by the pall that seemed to have fallen over her eyes. What was wrong here? Noting the intense tension in Winn's shoulders, Sri thought that she could conceivably snap the girl in two. ~~What was wrong here?~~ 

Ruan finally released Winn from his icy gaze. Fixing his gaze somewhere over her shoulder, he projected, ~~Tomorrow we begin.~~

Holding her hand out before her face, she scrutinized her slim, pale fingers. She recalled a phrase…~~pretty hands…pretty~~…

~~Yes,~~ she thought softly, as Ruan strode away, ~~tomorrow.~~

Comments are indeed welcomed….I'm shining up past reviewers' shrines, obelisks, memorials, and whatnot…*And* I'm in the process of distributing scary bunnies to them as well…So please do review and I'll give you a pot of apricot jelly! : )     


	8. Chapter 8

This update was faster than a drunk Dolly Parton. I think I'll go reward myself now with pumpkin pie.

NOTE: I've changed how the characters' *thoughts* are written into the text; now only projected thoughts and telepathy have these ( ~~ ) things around them. Sorry!

SECOND Note: While I was writing this, I was listening predominantly to MÚM'S MOST EXCELLENT ALBUM, FINALLY WE ARE NO ONE! Do try it out.   

I love reviewers…

Tamashii: How can you not like jelly?! I think—I think I having a hernia—ugh— ::gurgle, gurgle:: But moving on, thanks a ton for reviewing…read on…

torn violence: Wow. Yours was my first-ever super-long review. I absolutely relished and reveled in it. First off, I'm so glad you're liking the story. Yeah, I agree on the whole bad-boy attraction thing—I personally find their dark enigma intrinsically magnetic. Call me clichéd, but I think it's also especially interesting when there's a blatant contrast between the obvious beauty of their outer selves and the hidden, sharp-edged, perhaps nonexistent, complex beauty within. Ruan's definitely a sometimes freakish, often shitty character and I'm falling ever deeper in love with him. : ) And the compulsion/extortion aspect of the story was perfectly fitted, I think, to Ruan and Winn's peculiar complexities, augmenting the inevitable clashes between the disparities and similarities in their natures. Mmmm…then the dry-kiss scene ties into the theme of compulsion, revealing both characters' disgust and agitation towards each other…Fagin, huh? You're right, it wasn't intentional, but now I think of it, there is a definite verbal/conduct resemblance between them. I love writing 'bout Winn…she keeps changing (without my consent)…The criticism was delicious. You're right, I do get lazy sometimes, especially at the ends of chapters, and it was utterly good of you to point that out. I tried (usually) to keep this chap clean, but the lazy monster still's got it's claws in me, so tell me whether or not I improved at all. About the POVs, once again, great criticism. In some writing, I do like to explore, but it's probably wiser (and easier for readers) if the POVs are less sporadically arranged. I'll definitely work on it. Thanks sooo much for your delightful review, and please do read on… P.S. I'm liking spiderland most superlatively, so please keep writing…

galaktis: ::grudgingly hands the jelly over:: Fine! You can have it! Just take it!! Anyway, just remember that my jelly is your jelly (wow, that sounds strange). Thanks a barrel o' monkeys and keep the reviews coming…read on…

Katherine: I'm seriously blushing, here. : ) Thanks for the cool words and please, please, please read on…

neona-deniker: Sorry 'bout the shortitude last update, but I'm thinking this chapter is super-long compared my most recent. Enjoy the jelly (you strawberry-eating fool ; ) ) and the story…thanks a ton for the review and do read on… 

Chapter 8: Marquéd 

Winn's eyes flicked from side to side, instinctively scanning the dark, wet streets engulfed in a bluish fog. Three a.m. and I'm skulking, she thought amusedly. Who'd've thought I'd ever skulk? As she hurried past a stack of stinking garbage cans, she caught a glimpse of sudden movement—and jumped. A cat's wide, incandescent yellow eyes gleamed back at her. Feeling a shiver like cold fingers trail along her spine, she moved on, thinking, And I'm rather good at it.

            Soon she approached the old woman's—Mara's—tiny, plastic-wreathed shack bordering the wide, empty Myrtle Avenue. Standing quietly in front the shack's entrance, Winn peered into the soggy cave, searching automatically for a glimmer—a spark—of feverish yellow. 

            "Why are you here, girl?" a scratchy, withered voice quavered. Mara's wasted face, with the shrunken mouth and glassy yellow orbs set deep in the skull, swung into view. As though recalling something important, she asked pointedly, "And without the *boy*?" 

            Winn held herself still, feeling her cheeks drain of color and fill with an unhealthy pallor. "I have a question."

            Mara squinted impatiently. "Go on then, chicklet, do."

            "How am I supposed to bring you Ruan—"

            "Eh?"

            "The boy—Ruan, he's the boy."

            "Of course he's the boy. Don't I know this? Eh?"

            "I thought—"

"Never mind what you thought, chicklet! Get on with it!"

Winn clenched her fingers into bone-colored, sharp-edged fists. "How am I supposed to bring bad Ru—the boy—to you? He—he's far stronger than I am."  

At this, Mara chortled with bubbling mirth, her eyes snapping with a paradoxical blend of irony, venom, and genuine amusement. Head shaking with the side-to-side swing common to the aged, Mara responded gleefully, "Don't you know, chicklet? Haven't you any idea?"

Puzzled and wary, Winn asked, "I suppose not—what should I know?"

Mara smiled knowingly. "I think you have an idea, chicklet…a bitty idea. Your Ruan certainly does…" She paused, thinking. "Mmmm. Should I tell her?" Pause. "Certainly I should!" Mara crooked a finger, beckoning Winn closer, and Winn, almost involuntarily, obeyed. 

Leaning close, Mara said softly but clearly, "You are she. She who was…she who will be…she who died in the coldly burning inferno of her own power…" 

Winn glanced sharply at her, looking closely, but the furrowed old face was utterly serious, almost enraptured; the woman looked as though she were in some kind of waking trance, her eyes wide and abstracted—a religious, feral ecstasy. "What—what are you saying?" Winn whispered urgently.

            But the fervent prayer-like chant died on Mara's thin lips and, abruptly shaking her head, as though to get the cobwebs out, she muttered, annoyed, "Are you deaf as well as dumb, girl? I was saying what it was I was saying." 

            Winn stared at her evenly.

            Mara, meeting the cold, waiting eyes with a sideways glance, hunched a bit and mumbled, "Fine, then—oh, fine." The corners of her creased mouth quirked up, her yellow eyes almost lucid, and she continued, "I suppose your Ruan did not tell you then? Of course not—he is *cruel*!" She burst into shrill laughter. "Mmmm. Well, chicklet, it seems I must enlighten you, and, coincidentally, it is all the same to me." Her eyes flashed. "Winnen-little, rapidly approaches the day you *die*." 

* * *

            Ruan, lying half-clothed across his new, cool bed, was awake. 

            He stared at the dark ceiling, eyes an indefinite shade of deep blue, and reached out with his mind, the delicate tendril of thought stabbing through the shadowed distance between his mind and hers. She was not in her room; he had sensed it when she had crept out of bed, quiet as a street-weary cat, through the dusky corridors, and out into the early morning freeze. Indifferent, he had allowed her to duck reflexively away from his mind, and had drifted back into half-sleep. 

            But thirty or so minutes later, he had felt a violent tug and drag on his hazy thoughts, and, eyes snapping open, drew sharply awake. And now he lay sprawled, displeased and alert, mentally searching for some other sign of Winn.

            There she was…He dipped into her sharply hued mind and scanned her fire-red thoughts; the glaring flashes of pure, dripping crimson were giving him a headache. Shit. He searched deeper for coherent thoughts; there: a single sentence echoing over and over.

            ~~Rapidly approaches…the day that…you will *die*…~~ His eyes narrowed. Who was she talking to? 

Quick as a darting sparrow, he thrust his mind fully into hers, and for a second—less—he saw through her eyes: a flash of piercing, canary yellow eyes, set deep in an old face; waxy hair trailing down the narrow shoulders; a figure framed in darkness. A *witch*, he realized. He pulled away mentally, backing out of her perception. 

He felt her mouth open a bit in shock; she could feel him. ~~*What are you doing!* Bad Ruan! Get out—out!~~ He smiled deliberately at the mental shriek.

~~Is something wrong, partridge?~~

He distinctly felt Winn narrow her eyes, wary; he sensed that she was both outraged and fearful at his mental intrusion. ~~Ruan-boy, you must stay out of my brain.~~ A pause as she held her breath.

Amused, Ruan returned, ~~Partridge-little, that's not for you to decide. I control *you*, or don't you remember?~~

~~Control, Ruan?~~ she snapped, though he detected a quiver beneath the hot words. ~~You did not *control* me—~~

~~Strange. Why, Winn, are you trembling?~~ Eyes gone a deep, playful shade of turquoise, though a stray shaft of early-morning light caught a glint of something…dark… in the richly-hued depths, Ruan projected a near-tangible image of icy fingers tracing the delicate, fluid curve of a pale shoulder. 

He smiled lazily, sensing the tremor that automatically—involuntarily—ran through Winn's slight form. She didn't reply.

~~Has the veritable cat caught your tongue? I think it does; I can hear it growling. But enough with the whimsical bullshit.~~ His eyes were hooded and dark; his face comfortably expressionless. ~~Who are you talking to, Winnen Fallou?~~         

He felt her go still, calculating. There was something here, he knew; something not quite right. Not bothering to keep the acid from his mental voice, he murmured, ~~You know, partridge, I can *feel* you. You're in my mind just as I am in yours. Don't bother hiding anything—I'll just rip it out all the harder.~~

Winn seemed to hold her breath for a second, then tried to button up her shamelessly bared surface thoughts. With an effort, she replied, ~~This does not concern you, Ruan Ferrin. Stay out.~~   

He felt a rapid buildup of power in her, as she tried, repeatedly and unsuccessfully to screen her mind; the condensed mass of electric energy swelled hotter, greater. The tips of his long fingers prickled with anticipation and electric response to Winn's power; this was interesting. Ruan's irises gleamed a dark, vivid indigo.

With a sudden, almost audible crack, the electric, burning pulse in the girl's mind burst in a frenzy of color that blended and twisted together until all he could see was a shaft of  pure, white light radiating from two wide, obsidian eyes. 

A fraction of a second later, Ruan was staring at a greyish ceiling, ivory pale in boxers, stretched languorously across a chilled and rumpled bed. 

Yes, he thought, And so the game begins.

* * *

            Winn's eyes snapped open. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she met Mara's intrigued yellow gaze. A dainty smile pulled the corners of her lips up as she waited for Winn to calm down. 

            "So, your boy wants to know who I am, eh? Eh?"

            Winn nodded, subdued.

            "I know what you did, chicklet; I *felt* it. You pushed him right out, didn't you, girl?" 

            "I don't know what I did," Winn replied dully.

            "Of course you do, chicklet! You did it!" She cocked her head, bird-like, to the side. "And because you were so successful, chicklet, I am invariably led to believe that you are indeed she."

            "Who is *she*?" Winn whispered harshly. "You tell me I am *she*—she! And you tell me that I'll soon be *dead*—but you don't say *why*! So, Mara, *why*?"

            Mara gazed intently at Winn. "First, girl, do not interrupt. You wonder who I speak of, this 'she'." A filmy glaze fell over her old, old eyes, as though she were remembering something long past, long forgotten. Staring into those polished gold-ringed eyes, Winn felt herself begin to drift…  

"Her name was Elmyr and she was beautiful. A face as purely oval and ivory-pale as drops of pearl; hair the silken color of winter-sand; swan-throat slender as young birch; tall and lovely as the laurel, she was. And the *power*! Oh, it was grand. All of Ireland—her land—feared her for it; for her power, Born within her when she died, was beyond anything the world had yet seen…she was, in a word, the flesh-and-blood embodiment of power. Add to that her frightening, pristine, and utterly intrinsic cruelty, and she was invincible. This held true from perhaps 200 B.C. to 0 B.C.—nearly two centuries during which she inflicted more glorious horror and chaos on Ireland than that vermin imposter 'Vlad the Impaler' could ever dream of doing to his Romania. But then came her collapse. After a bloodfeast during which three hundred humans were sacrificed over the course of dinner, Elmyr, hands, mouth and hair sticky with gore, began to *burn* with an undreamed-of blend of cold-hot power—her own! She drowned in it—in her own, demon-kissed power, and when the storm had passed, naught was left but a shriveled, unidentifiable husk," Mara finished. She blinked, and the fever surged back into her eyes, her lips pulled back in a grin-slash-grimace. 

Winn gave her head a slight shake, snapping back to reality. Raising an intensely perturbed gaze to Mara's face, she whispered slowly, "What does this have to do with me?"

"Mmmm. I think you *know*, chicklet, surely I do. You see, Winnen Fallou, you are her equal…untapped reserves of unimaginable power lie dormant in your scrawny self. In a word, Winnen Fallou, you are *marked* as she was marked." 

Winn bit back an angry rebuttal, and softly replied, "And I will die as she did…in freezing fire. Is this what you mean?"

"Certainly."

"How do you know all of this?"

Mara whipped her head up, stringy hair splayed in jagged edges about her shoulders, and retorted angrily, "I tell you I lay curled in the womb and I *knew*! I *know*—simply that!"

Digging her short nails into her palms, Winn quietly inhaled the smell of sodden cardboard and wool. With receding patience, she asked, "But what is it that tipped you off?"

Glowering, piqued, Mara replied sharply, "You pushed the boy out! He is *strong*, chicklet, and knows it! But you—a *youngling* no less—pushed him out easy as though you've done it your whole miserable life! And that's not all of it, no; you can move from place to place in an instant, can't you, girl? Don't look shocked. That was one of Elmyr's first-discovered powers. I *know*, Winnen Fallou, and well."

Winn drew in a sharp breath. "What are you?" she asked.

Mara's face suddenly changed—her mouth tightened and her outlandish yellow glare softened into a reflective, faraway expression. "*Vermin-witch* they called me, and cut me here," she murmured and held out a wasted palm; in its middle was a thick mass of scar tissue, as though from a puncture wound. "And there." She bared the other palm, and in its center was another deep and angry scar. "Because I knew...and I could not help knowing. They ruined them, my lovely hands! Ruined." She smiled gently. "And because I knew and would not—could not—stop knowing, they took my hands, my feet, my *ears*, and put shafts of lovely gold right through them…I ran away then, after." 

"Who was it that ruined your hands?" Winn asked cautiously.

"Vampirae, girl. I was a slave, you know, born and bred in the Blackwater enclave, not the most famous lamia families, but certainly one of the cruelest."

"Enclave?"

Mara sighed again, tiredly. "Aye, chicklet, enclave. You don't know much 'bout all of this, do you?" Winn shook her head guardedly. "Yes, this I knew. He hasn't told you anything at all, your boy, and do you know why? Of course you don't know why; you don't seem to know much of anything. He hasn't told you, Winnen Fallou, because he wants you weak as possible. I told you, he already suspects your power, and he is eager—so eager!—to use it for himself and his own ends. He wants to mold you, chicklet, into something so soft and empty you'd be *gone* and he wouldn't have to worry about his connection to you—he wouldn't have to *see* you. Your power would be his power and as long as you were just empty and not dead, he could live his endless life as though you never *existed*. That is why he hasn't told you a thing, Winnen Fallou. He knows that if you knew the rules to his games—the *Nightworld's* games—you might just be a threat." The faraway look had returned to her eyes.

"You sound as though you know this from experience."

"Not my own experience, chicklet. Never my own experience. You see, Winn, I live other people's lives. I feel their hurts, their loves, their rage and their quiet. I may be a witch, chicklet, but not so ordinary as the esteemed Blackwaters thought. Truth is, Winn, I don't know what I am. A witch, yes, but not quite a witch. And now my blood runs numb, chicklet, after a life of swimming in the emotions of others."

Winn gazed at the old face that was no longer quite so repulsive with great dark eyes filled with a bit of empathy, perhaps, but more fully with comprehension and near-respect. Winn realized, with a vague jolt, that crazy Mara was not so crazy after all; it was a put-on: something Mara did to keep away the people who so intensely tortured her. Winn frowned; another thing bothered her. 

She tilted her head to the side. "Witches?"     

* * *

An hour later, Winn sat cross-legged on her new bed in her new room. Witches, shapeshifters, and werewolves oh shit, she thought, faintly dazed. She was bloated with an influx of new knowledge, all of it related to the huge, frighteningly complex underworld of preternatural overlords: the Nightworld. 

Recalling how outrageously ignorant she had been—she scowled. Ruan. She wasn't surprised, though, having been perceived as scum, as dirt, as *nothing* all her life. All my life, she thought. All my stupid life. Something turbulent and fierce filled her eyes with an undulating dark, and it was utterly alien to her usual wary nervosa. 

Suddenly, she felt something tugging at her mind. Ruan, she thought distastefully, biting down hard on her bottom lip. A stab of mental heat made her wince. Most definitely Ruan. Narrowing her eyes, she concentrated on a single, vivid image of a huge, polished-steel wall, trying to shield the thoughts he found so easy to pluck from her brain and read. Just as his tall, lean form stepped lazily through the doorway, she slammed the image into place, eyes wide and shocked—how had she done that? 

Ruan leaned against the door frame, staring narrowly at Winn's profile. Holding herself still as a terrified deer, and struggling to hold the wall-image in place, she peered at him from the corner of her eye. His vibrant, rumpled, wine-colored hair framed the sculpted face in almost boyish cowlicks, and his eyes were a startling sapphire shade. 

"Partridge."

She turned her head and stared back at him.

"Time for a visit with our old chums."

She blinked with a deliberate slowness, hoping he wouldn't detect the furtive look that had crept so daintly into her eyes. A wispy thought dangled alluringly just behind her wall…

I suppose it's time to play, Ruan.                   

* * *

"Lovelies! Hullo, dears. How does the wind blow on the other side?" Lif asked jovially; his eyes sparkling more green than grey just now.

            Ruan and Winn stood, an incongruous pair, in the same elegant, Tiffany-lamp-lit room in which they had been assigned their present task. Lif leaned comfortably against a tall, rosewood bookshelf, while the red-haired Danna examined the visitors vigilantly from her deceptively relaxed position on the satiny sofa. 

Ruan gazed at Lif with eyes half shut and answered with a vaguely ironic drawl, "Slightly to the west, if I'm not mistaken." He half-glanced at Winn. "Am I, do you think?"

            She immediately recognized the allusion for what it was—*East of Eden* was her favorite novel. Winn narrowed her eyes at his pale neck and answered softly, "Perhaps. But then, I imagine it blows more to the east." She blinked and looked away from the ivory-colored swathe of skin. 

            Danna's reddish brows arched and Ruan's eyes widened fractionally; he seemed faintly intrigued at the prospect of debate. "Do you really? And have you misplaced your loyalties, partridge?"

            Winn, staring ahead, returned, "Loyalties, Ruan? And where are these loyalties?"

            Ruan glanced at her and answered briefly, "We'll see." He glanced away, turning his attention to Lif, dismissing Winn.  

            Danna and Lif exchanged mystified looks. Lif, who had been watching them amusedly throughout their miniature, quiet-voiced quarrel, smiled a little, his slightly narrowed eyes meeting Ruan's dark ones. "My lovelies are having troubles, are they?" he inquired softly. 

Winn set her level stare on Lif's exquisite features; his face was almost too pretty for a man, but some subtle curve of cheek or jaw gave it balance, making him look not handsome, but beautiful while still retaining his maleness.

 Lif turned to Winn. Meeting her darkly analytical gaze, his eyes sparkled wickedly, as though he knew what she thought of him. "I hope not; I detest bickering so." Returning his glimmering gaze to Ruan, Lif went on, "So, my dears, what can you tell me about our local pond scum?"  

Ruan shrugged blandly. "We've yet to find something conclusive." 

Winn threw a sharp glance at him from the corner of her eye. What was he talking about? They had plenty of data; they already knew most of the entrances and corridors in the backrooms, and where a few key offices were located. They could even give a feasible estimate of how many rebels were involved. Winn stared with hard, confused eyes at her scuffed shoes. Not that she cared, really, to "rout" the "insurgents" quickly or at all; in fact, recalling the sweet faces of Fiona, Asher, and Nona, and the friendly, half-feral smiles of Sri, Jasper, and Jon, she thought she wouldn't mind if they lived. Play along, Winn, she thought.

Casting a slightly bored expression over her features, Winn nodded. 

For an instant—or was it her imagination?—Lif's eyes seemed to *burn* with something ancient, molten, and utterly terrifying. Winn glanced away. 

"Ruan, it's already been, what, three, four days? Why haven't you found anything *conclusive*?" Lif murmured softly, dangerously.

"Three days. And we haven't found anything conclusive because we are in the process of earning the rebels' trust…whatever you might think, Lif, these—vermin—aren't entirely lacking in the brains department. I doubt they believe us."

"Why haven't you wiped them, then, Ruan?"

Ruan laughed harshly. "I doubt even I can wipe a whole fucking agency, Lif, *dear*."

"Do you really? And is it also beyond you to fucking wipe the fucking *leader*?" Lif asked, still in the same, almost mild, tone.

"Wipe the *leader*? Sure, if you point him out for me."

"Fuck, Ruan."

"Language, Lifling, is the proverbial road to success…"

"Surely, surely." He sighed. "Ruan, I want data—*conclusive* data—in two weeks."

"Ciao, Lifling."

"Fuck off, dear."

Do comment, lovelies, do! 

Much love and scary bunnies,

Mogget : ) 


	9. Chapter 9

I'm devastatingly embarrassed that it's taken me so long to update…But I really was super busy with all sorts of college app junk. Thanks so much to all for reading and for the delicious reviews last time around…Do read on…

Chapter 9: Marquéd

            Myr.

            Ruan couldn't remember a more magnificent creature…Tall, slim, sandy-haired and utterly perfect. Full, flawless lips that, when pulled back in a smile, curled so delicately at the corners. So very *sweet*.

            Ruan leaned against a shadowed wall, long arms folded in front of him, at once oblivious and exquisitely aware of the dancers whirling, jerking before him. Deep, thunderous music pounded and shook the floor, the walls, the people, while Ruan instinctively observed the roiling crowd, locking vampires, shapeshifters, witches and even an occasional werewolf into permanent memory. 

            His mind was somewhere else, though, far away and dancing in decayed memories… 

            He recalled the day they met; wet, cold, dreary violet-grey. After a particularly intense psychological battle with his father over his prospects for the future, Ruan had quietly and deliberately left the townhouse, feeling colder inside than the raindrops hurtling down from above. 

            Julius Ferrin had wanted and planned for his son to join an elite Nightworld assassins' agency called Morteflame. Julius Ferrin did not approve of his son's obvious interest in literature—it would not, he declared, be congruous with Ruan's future career, and so, he reasoned, must be forgotten entirely. 

            The Ferrin family had always—for the past four hundred years—given one son or one daughter to Morteflame, a tradition honored not only by the Ferrins, but by virtually all high-ranking lamia families. Morteflame, Julius said, was central to the Nightworld—was a sort of an ivory tower amongst assassins' agencies. Morteflame ensured the safety of top tier shapeshifter, witch and especially lamia families. It was not simply custom; it was a deep obligation to the future of the Nightworld. So Julius said.      

            Ruan remembered the icy droplets of rainwater dripping from his hair and down his neck, through the collar of his dark, wool pea coat and down his spine as he walked swiftly down strange dark streets. Great, gnarled trees huddled, thick masses of foliage, on each side of every street amongst the swanky brownstones. He had walked with eyes keen and still unseeing, face carven in ice, mind blank, until he reached the huge city library. 

            He had dropped down into a plush sofa chair, seeking what—what? He had not been about to peruse the stacks, or study Dante's *Inferno*. So he supposed he had been seeking comfort; the solace Julius Ferrin had so systematically denied him all his nineteen years. 

            Thinking back, Ruan wondered what he had been *feeling*. He couldn't quite recall…it was like some kind of dream; like trying to recall a childhood reverie after the golden bloom of youth was faded and dry. Ruan knew he hadn't really *felt* anything quite so intense as that *feeling* he had experienced so long ago. Even as a disillusioned, pitiless, and thoroughly mercenary young man, he hadn't yet lost that emotional lodestone so intrinsic in youth. It was still buried, hovering spectre-like under the surface, making his nineteen-year-old self *feel* something concentrated and deep, however vague and distorted that something actually was.

            Was it fury he had felt so intensely? Better yet, was it rage? Confusion or perhaps sadness? Maybe self-pity? Ruan thought maybe it was all of these things, to varying degrees. 

            And it was that dense, emotionally-packed moment as he sat slumped that proved to be the turning point of Ruan's life.

            Because it was at that instant that a tall, glossy-haired, purple-eyed girl had brushed past him, causing him, in his unguarded state, to glance reflexively up and meet her cool, sparkling gaze. And it was in that instant that he had realized that he had found an equal.

            Her name was Myr, she smelled like ginger and dried roses, and she was so, so *perfect*. 

            From then on, he had felt almost content, and certainly confident enough to refuse to go to Morteflame. When he again confronted Julius two days later, he refused to go to Morteflame, declaring also that he would soon marry Myr. Julius had been absolutely enraged. His father had disowned him utterly, even threatening to have him killed.                 

            Ruan had smiled at this, even chuckled; could his father have possibly thought Ruan would care about the family fortune? That he would care about being disowned from a family—a father—who had rejected him since birth? Thinking back on this, Ruan could feel his lips quirk up in a smile. 

But the smile froze suddenly and faded, leaving his face in its usual, impossibly cold impassivity. I didn't care at all, he thought. He knew that a "normal" young man would have felt some flash of anger, spark of confusion, some dull, aching hurt at his father's final rejection. It wasn't strange though, to Ruan, to have felt nothing bar mirth; Ruan had known he was…different…even as a child. The other lamia children had always stayed far away from him, sensing with childish intuition an emptiness in Ruan—that Ruan lacked some intangible element necessary not for physical life, but certainly for emotional and psychological normalcy. They also sensed that it was that emptiness that made him more dangerous.  

Though he recognized that he was strange in the world's eyes, Ruan of course never felt odd, or alien. The emptiness people consciously and unconsciously saw in him and subsequently shied away from was invisible to Ruan; but he wasn't blind to it. It was there and he knew it. And he sincerely didn't give much of a fuck about it.

Or rather, he didn't care about what others thought about it, but he was still vaguely intrigued in how it affected people. 

Early on in his childhood, he began to see and understand the hidden wall between him and the rest of the world (Nightworld included), and how it worked. And after a year or so of yearning to belong and consequent rejection, boy-Ruan began to utilize his singularity; his foreignness became his greatest weapon. 

For the next ninety-odd years that followed, Ruan honed his weapon, using his strangeness to intimidate, confuse, blind, and ultimately conquer those around him. Especially during his years with the Marquéd he became quite the virtuoso at psychological torture.

            Even when Myr came along, Ruan hardly paused in his development of his "weapon"—though he rarely used it on Myr. For all her impetuosity Myr was far too keen to be manipulated by a nineteen-year-old, however intelligent and coldblooded he might have been. On the contrary, if there was manipulation present in their relationship, it was on Myr's part entirely. Ruan vividly recalled the rare flashes of insight he had had into Myr's true character—a character that had proved to be even more calculating, cruel, and cold than Ruan's own. She had concealed herself so well that only someone as sharply aware of others as Ruan could have possibly glimpsed inside her elaborately crafted façade of a rash, emotionally naïve young woman.

            And even Ruan never knew how old she was.

            She had claimed to be newly-made, and nineteen years old, but Ruan was beyond positive she was much, much older. How old he could never quite say.

            After being officially disowned by Julius Ferrin, Ruan moved in with Myr into a tiny garret-type tenement in the East Village as he continued his studies in literature at University. He planned to marry Myr in a couple months, simply to get it over with since he was sure he would find no one better than she. It was not love that prompted him to plan for marriage so soon, of course. He couldn't love. Not quite, at least. He could pretend very well, if he so chose—he usually didn't—but he could never quite feel the real thing.

            He never got the chance. 

Ruan never knew just why Myr left him so suddenly four months after being rejected by his father. One day she was there, and the next she was gone with no warning, threat or farewell. All Ruan knew was that a strange, perfect, utterly mysterious young woman who had seemed to like him enough to marry him had ruined his plans for the future in a single, well-aimed swoop.

            Ruan shut his eyes, lips slightly curved. Even to the last, she had still managed to fool him. 

* * *                      

            "Jasper, you are a god amongst men!" Sri cried, as the object of her adoration settled into the sofa beside her. 

            "I thought you'd like it," he answered, clearly pleased with himself. 

            Perched on a gold-gleaming sofa chair across from them, Winn gazed furtively at the two from beneath her hair. 

Sri glanced up and smiled. "As much as I abhor admitting it, Jasper is most certainly a thing of the gods today. Remember when I was telling you and Ruan about how I study—" 

"Obsess," Jasper broke in flatly.

"Whatever. How I was telling you about my interest in powers? You know the kind…ranging from your standard Nightworld powers of old, both obscure and well-known, as well as the individual powers of werewolves, shifties, and especially vampirae—both lamia and made." Sri's cheeks were flushed with excitement, her dark eyes shining.

Winn nodded tentatively.

"Well, Jasper here went and found me a copy of an old manuscript about some long-forgotten lady-vamp who lived in Ireland centuries ago." She sighed. "Romantic, isn't it?"

Lady-vamp…Ireland…Winn automatically kept her face clear of recognition and upset, at the same time clenching her fingers into fists in her lap, the knuckles blanched a sickly white. She glanced over at Jasper and found him staring back at her, eyes glimmering and hooded. What does he know? she wondered, slightly panicked. 

"Winn?"

Winn snapped her attention back to Sri. 

"Are you all right, then, Winn?" Sri asked in a slightly worried tone.

"Oh—yes. Of course. I'm fine…but I was wondering something, Sri…" she murmured softly.

"Yes?"

"What is her name?"

"You mean the lady-vamp?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Wait—I know it…I think it's Emer—no. Elwyn? No…Oh. Of course. The name's 'Elmyr.' "

* * *   

Winn hurried out of the club and into cool twilight. The sky was still flushed a deep, dusky rose, dark, rain-heavy clouds plashed across the crimson expanse. She slipped around the corner of the building, and, folding her arms tightly around herself, slumped against the rough, stuccoed wall. 

            Elmyr. Mara had told her that she was Elmyr…that Elmyr was she. Or more precisely, not that either of them quite embodied the other, but rather that they were both *marked*. Marked *how*? Winn wondered, frustrated. And why is this Elmyr so important all of a sudden? All my life I hear nary a whisper about anything like the woman and now I'm suddenly her—her whatever. She's been dead two thousand years! 

            She dug her short, ragged nails into the thick wool of her coat. And Jasper knows something…he must know something. I *know* he does. Or…is it paranoia? No, no, no. He was looking at me far too strangely—I didn't imagine it, I'm sure. What can he know about me and Elmyr? What connection does he see? His powers…his powers were of telepathy, influence, telekinesis…But perhaps he has another? That he doesn't wish to share with strangers? Maybe. She hugged herself tighter and braced herself more firmly against the wall. He gave the manuscript to Sri, so he must want her to figure something out, something he hasn't. Something to do with me? She sighed. All this wondering and I suppose I'll not know for sure until it hits me in the face. 

            One question lingered in her mind, separate from all the desperate conjectures; it dangled, shockingly clear and pristine, in her mind: Should I tell Ruan? 

            She didn't know, wasn't sure. Couldn't he help her, he with all his years and cold intelligence? Mightn't the pallid monster help her? 

~~ He wants to mold you, chicklet, into something so soft and empty you'd be *gone* and he wouldn't have to worry about his connection to you—he wouldn't have to *see* you.~~

She shook her head slowly, the echo of Mara's quavering, weary voice throbbing unavoidably in her mind.  He wouldn't help her. With a sudden flash of insight, she corrected herself, Or…he *can't* help me. He doesn't know how to *feel* as other people feel! He isn't—normal…

She shivered. How had she known that? Where had that come from?

I wish the world would just stop changing…

She licked her dry, cracked lips and drew in a shallow breath. I won't tell him. He'll just use it against me, I think. Right, Mara? He'll *mold* me, won't he? It's all he wants out of me. 

With a toss of the head, Winn pushed away from the wall, feeling the coarse grain of the stucco bite into her palms, and walked slowly, aimlessly down the sidewalk. She wasn't quite sure where she was headed. All she knew was that her body needed to *move* and her mind needed to think.

Blind to the now-pitch-dark sky and deaf to the rumbling of the ponderous clouds above, Winn suddenly fell into a deep void rife with the half-remembered dreams and memories of her childhood.

She was born on December 21st, the winter equinox, in New York City, in a tiny flat in Brooklyn. She didn't remember much about the neighborhood, only that it was dark and dirty and frightening, or much about her high school, only that it was cold and sterile and unfriendly. She did remember her father, however, and her mother. 

It was all so ugly she wished she could at least half-forget them, as she had near everything else. But she couldn't…not when her dreams were hot with the distinct tang of singed flesh and hair, and acrid with the intriguing, intermingled aromas of vomit and blood.             

She remembered the cigarette butts pressed, sizzling, against the delicate skin bordering her hairline; she recalled, all too vividly, the hot, exquisite slice of cold knives against the skin, and the warm drip of tear-diluted blood on her sallow, hollowed cheeks. 

Winn snapped back to the present, shuddering violently. This is why you don't think about it! This is why you hush the past, Winn, you stupid girl! Now hush, will you? 

Winn stopped walking and sucked in a deep breath. She let it out slowly and began walking again, inching down the sidewalk. A fat drop of cold rain slapped against her forehead, but she ignored it and continued slowly down the rain-dotted cement. She heard a deafening clap of thunder and felt a sudden rush of rainwater come hurtling down from the sleeping heavens.

Minutes later, her hair was soaked and dripping, water-slick curls clinging to her throat and cheeks. Winn stopped walking, and glanced around at her surroundings—nothing was familiar. Where was she? Tall, unlit residential buildings towered over her on either side of the street, and ancient, gnarled oak trees raked the rain-soaked night sky. Winn widened her eyes, and felt her pupils dilate until her eyes felt like great, gaping black holes, sucking in as much light as she possibly could in order to see clearly. 

She frowned. Even with her sharp night vision, everything remained unfamiliar, alien. She had officially mislaid her way. Grimacing, she took a step in the direction she had come. 

*Crunch.*

Winn froze. That was a footstep. And it had come from behind her.  

*Crunch.* And obviously the owner of the foot didn't care whether or not she knew he/she/it was there. Which meant it was dangerous. 

*Crunch.*

Whirling sharply around, Winn bit deeply into her bottom lip, drawing blood. In response to the prospect of danger, her fangs had instinctively grown, along with her usually short nails, which were now long, pointed claws. "Who is it?" she asked loudly. "Who's there?" Her gaze could somehow not penetrate the deep, rain-slashed shadows ahead.

            "Where are you?" she cried. 

            "Right here, partridge."

Stifling a gasp, Winn twisted around and gaped at Ruan's sardonically curved lips, wickedly glimmering eyes, only a couple feet away. She noticed his hair was sopping and almost black, his smooth, pale skin glistening in the faded moonlight. Facing him fully, she narrowed her eyes and asked in an audibly shaken voice, "Do you practice scaring people in the mirror too? Or was this some freakish reflection of your natural derangement?"

Ruan smiled wider at the tremble beneath the words. "I prefer the term 'misunderstood.' It's much more politically correct, don't you agree, partridge?"

"Certainly. But not so exact, I don't think."

"You really don't think much, do you? But never mind about that, partridge; I have a question for you: What are you doing out here at two o'clock in the morning?"

Blinking water out of her eyes, Winn stared back up at him, into his deep, indigo-colored eyes, trying not to appear afraid. "It's none of your business, Ruan."

Ruan's eyes iced over, and as his tight smile faded, he gazed at a point somewhere near her ear. "That's not for you to decide, Winnen-little. Remember that." He shifted his cold, almost weary gaze back to her eyes. "So, partridge, why are you out here so late?"

Winn understood the sudden chill that seemed to have engulfed him; he had tired of banter and if she didn't concede to his demand, he would be angry. Winn didn't want to give in to him, but she also didn't want to see him angry. Last time she had, she'd received a broken wrist for her pains. Winn directed her gaze away from his eyes and answered tersely, "I was out for a walk."

"Were you. How nice, partridge. Why were you out for a walk?"

"I needed to think."

"Don't we all? What about?"

She paused for an instant before answering; she could feel Ruan notice her hesitation and store it for further contemplation. "I needed to think about the past—my past." It wasn't exactly a lie...she had sort of fallen into a reverie on the subject.

She was startled by a sharp chuckle. Winn didn't think she had ever heard Ruan laugh and she wasn't sure she liked it; the sound was so metallic, and cold…how she imagined a dragon's laugh might sound. "Your past, Winnen Fallou? And what kind of past could a youngling like you have?"

Winn felt angry. Her cheeks flushed and a caustic heat began burning in her chest in spite of the icy water falling all around; the hotness in her eyes and heart and body loosened her tongue. "A newborn kitten has a past! Who are you, Ruan, with merely a hundred years, to mock what Fate has left burning in its wake?"       

            Ruan hand snapped out and his long fingers grasped her chin. She gasped softly at the skin-to-skin contact, the sudden flare of electricity, and was momentarily lost in sensation of having all her nerve endings go wild as he drew her face close, only inches away from his. She couldn't move her face at all; eyes wide, she stared at his gleaming, vividly cobalt irises. They glinted with something dark, something verging on chaos. "I wouldn't speak so rashly, were I you, Winnen-little."

            But Winn wasn't finished; the hot anger still smoldered inside of her. Speaking behind clenched teeth, struggling to move her jaw in his unyielding grip, she replied angrily, "Wouldn't you, though? Were I *you* Ruan Ferrin, I wouldn't speak of things I know nothing about!"

            Ruan dug his fingers deeper into the skin of her jaw, making shallow, crescent-shaped cuts with his elegant fingernails. His eyes flashed and he whispered, "And what do I know nothing about, Winn?"        

            Lightning-quick, Winn shoved her damp hair away from her forehead and cried, "This!" Feeling his hold on her loosen slightly, she jerked her head savagely out of his grasp. She knew what he saw: an almost artistic arrangement of burn and cut scars dotted along her hairline. The scars had faded when she was Born, but they were still very visible to vampire eyes. Without looking for a reaction, she yanked her coat sleeves up to her elbows and, holding out her arms so he could see the swirling pattern of burn scars dancing along the skin where the underside of the arm met the skin on top, cried, "And this!" 

            She bent down and pulled her pant-leg up to her knee and showed him the curving ring carved into the flesh just above her ankle by a ragged-edged knife. "Look at this, Ruan! And this! And th—"

            Ruan clamped a long-fingered hand over her mouth. Winn met his gaze; his eyes were no more concerned than they had been moment before. They were a brilliant, gleaming azure, even in the murky, drenched night, and utterly cold. "You were mistaken, partridge. I know enough about such things." Winn's eyes widened—what was he talking about? "Did you expect sympathy, Winnen Fallou? Compassion? A pat on the back and an ice cream cone to make it all better?"    

            She pulled her face away from his hand, and, still staring up at his beautifully inhuman face, whispered almost to herself, "I don't think you're capable of compassion, Ruan Ferrin."

            Ruan reached out and traced a forefinger along her hairline, across her scars. Winn shivered at the electricity-laced, whisper-light touch. Without looking away from his finger, Ruan murmured, "I think you're right, Winnen Fallou. Lately I've been wondering what it is that makes me—different…" He paused, watching his fingertip trail across the skin between her ear and cheekbone. "And I think you've summed it up very nicely…compassion…No, I suppose I'm not capable of it." His finger wandered across the pale skin of her cheekbone, down to where her jaw and earlobe met.

            Winn held herself completely still, and whispered, "Why are you different, Ruan Ferrin?"

            He watched his finger trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her chin, and the shape of her lips, then answered, "It remains…a mystery…even to me."

            "Wh—"

            He pressed his fingers over her mouth and said in a final tone, "No, Winn."

            Winn felt him slide his thumb across her bottom lip and heard him say, "Why, Winn, it appears you're bleeding..." She saw him study his bloodied thumb and very deliberately wipe it clean on his sodden jeans. 

            She shrugged out of his grasp and turned away; she didn't catch the faint, almost triumphant smile that curved his lips. 

            Ruan stepped ahead of her and began walking away. He half-glanced over his shoulder, but not at Winn, and said, "Come, partridge."

            After a second's hesitation, Winn hugged her drenched self tightly and followed.

* * *  

            The club was packed with glistening, writhing bodies. Ruan strode easily through the crowd, knowing Winn could hardly shove her way through. Without a look back, Ruan arrived at the circular niche rebel members had claimed as their own and leaned, arms crossed, against the brick wall on the far end. From there he could observe the roiling mass of people without being noticed. 

            "Hello, Ruan," the white-haired woman called Sri called to him.

            Except, of course, by Sri and Jasper. He glanced over at her and Jasper and nodded.

            Jasper smiled slightly and said, "Did you hear, Ruan, that Red's just recruited a new member?"

            Sri nodded brightly, her cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming as though she'd just visited a library devoted to Nightworld manuscripts and added, "Actually, this one isn't just a member, and she wasn't exactly recruited. We've been expecting her—or at least Red has—for quite some time. Allegedly, she's some kind of vamp prodigy—though it's strange no one around here had even heard of her before today…Anyway, Red got her to agree to lead us…appears she's got something against those Marquéd bastards too. The tide'll soon be turning, I believe. Don't you agree, Jasper?"

            Jasper nodded lazily, though Ruan thought he glimpsed something strangely bright in those turquoise eyes. "Sure. Why not?"

            "Indeed," someone murmured from behind the sofa where Sri and Jasper sat. 

            Ruan's head jerked up, and his eyes widened—he knew that voice. How could he not? That voice—it belonged to—it was—

            "There she is," Sri said, and smiled up at the figure.

            "Hello, Ruan," the figure murmured.

            Ruan stared, and murmured back, "Hello, Myr."

Thanks for reading, lovelies! Please review…I adore reviews even more than scary bunnies! 

: ) Mogget


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry this has taken such a huge fecal matter load of time for me to post. But I really have been ridiculously busy of late (actually, during the whole past month, but who cares, right? :- \ ). Anyway, I hope, hope, hope you enjoy this next chapter…and with any luck I'll soon be having more time to crank out some more…

*Check out Autechre—the music throbs gorgeously…*

Tamashii: Hullo! Hullo! First off, the theme song was astutely selected : ). You know, I really am enjoying the web weavage in this story…it's super fun to get these poor people all tangled up relationship-wise. It'll be interesting to see how Winn and Ruan's relationship develops. Thank you so much for reviewing, and read on!

galaktis: How do, old chum o' mine? About the Winn-Ruan bits, all I can say is: "Heh, heh." I think the real allure—interaction-wise—is when zero to just a bit of skin is showing. I wonder how this'll progress…Anyway, muchisimas gracias for reviewing, and please, please, please read on!

angelphire: Hallo! The plot is just getting more and more tangled up—I can hardly see where I'm going, but that just makes writing it out a ton more interesting…it's kind of like being an onlooker to it all. Thanks five hundred tons for your delightful review, and do read on!

Katherine: Hullo there! You know, Winn really has grown some calluses against that nasty boy, although she still has a ways to go. She can't really help—a lot of the time—being under his control; she's lived a life of submission to others' wishes and comfort, so she doesn't quite have total control over herself. Thank you so much for reviewing, and please read on!

The Mistress of Frost: Nice to meet you, and neatly figured! The whole Myr-Elmyr thing *is* drawn out, but I think it has to be that way because of the character-past-development element going on. Hopefully, though, it'll speed up. You know, Winn and Ruan are just so different, which is why I think they find it so difficult to meet in the middle. It'll be interesting to see how the relationship progresses. Thanks so much for the review, and please read on! 

Chapter 10: Marquéd

            Upon finally reaching the niche, Winn shoved her hair out of her face and sighed. She hunched her shoulders a bit. Looking up from under her lashes, she noticed Ruan a few meters away, speaking with Sri and Jasper…and someone else. 

            A stranger, she thought, taking in the young woman's glimmering hair and amethystine eyes. She wore a delicate, violet chiffon slip dress loosely cinched low on the hips, under an ankle-length, slimly tailored, coffee-colored wool coat. She was pretty. No, Winn corrected herself. Not pretty—perfect. And gorgeous and svelte and ethereal. 

            Looking through sparkling dimness, Winn had the distinct feeling that she had met this girl before…in a dream? She was so familiar…like violets strewn along a beach, the sky overhead overcast and grim. 

            Suddenly Winn realized the strange girl was staring back at her, her soft mouth curled in a vague smile. Winn blinked and looked away—and was slightly unnerved when she met Ruan's startled blue glance. Glancing away, Winn thought to herself, Ruan is troubled? She hadn't though he could *be* upset.

            "Who's this, Ruan?" the girl asked in a light, clear voice that sounded like water trickling over smooth stone. Winn thought she could detect a faint, lilting accent beneath the delicate tones.

            Winn flicked a glance over at Ruan, and noted with an odd mixture of relief and uncertainty that his eyes were once again iced over, opaque, and unreadable. "Winn," she answered without waiting for him to respond. "I'm Winn."

            Ruan turned away, towards the violet-eyed girl and said in a distinctly bored tone, "Her name's Winnen Fallou, Myr. Winnen, Myr Ó Ceallaigh…"

            Disregarding Ruan's tone, Myr smiled wider and murmured to him, "Why, Ruan, she is a pretty little thing, isn't she? How long did it take you, anyway? Ninety years?" Her laughter rang out, tinkling like broken glass. 

            Ruan didn't blink. Instead of acknowledging the comment, he smiled a perfect, shocking smile, turned away and disappeared into the masses. Winn detected a flash of something sharp and distinctive in her eyes—triumph? Anger? Myr turned to Winn. "Temperamental, isn't he? He's always been that way, I think. But striking that, I think this may be the moment to explain myself…"

            Winn didn't answer, just kept looking at her with a bemused, tremulous expression pinching her features. 

            Myr narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly, tilting her sandy head to the side. "Do you realize what I just said, Winn?" she murmured softly, as though to herself. "I'm going to *explain* myself to *you*." Something cold and excited flashed in those lavender-tinted orbs, and she whispered harshly, unexpectedly, "There's something about you, Winn—I noticed it the moment I saw you. As clichéd as it sounds, it's something so familiar…as though I've seen it in some long-past reverie…" With a tiny shake of her head, her eyes lost the nebulousness. With a sharp, measuring glance, Myr murmured, "You're certainly a peculiar creature, Winnen Fallou, to elicit such responses from—strangers." She smiled slightly, and beckoned to Winn and the small group of Nightpeople near them. "Come, if you will. I'd like to speak with you all somewhere more private." 

They followed her through the entrance to the backrooms, into a spacious chamber far in the very back of the building. The wide, low-ceilinged room was lit by several eccentric, blown-glass lamps; in the center of the chamber was a ring of plush couches and sofa chairs upholstered in muted shades of gold, taupe and brown velvet.

The small group settled into the sofas by now listening with intense alertness, and exchanging puzzled, anticipatory glances.  Sri was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, hands tightly clasped, eyes wide and sparkling. 

            Perched on an austere, metal-framed chair,  Myr smiled at the group: whimsical Jasper, moon-pale Asher, nervous Shelley, gentle Fiona, little Edmund, wild-haired Nona, quiet, sharp-eyed Solo, roguish Jon, smooth-skinned Dianne. "Nice to meet you, I'm sure," she said, and clasped her hands before her.

            Immediately, Sri intoned, "Tell us, Ms. Ó Ce-Ce-ah-sorry—" she blushed.

"Oh-Kahl-leh."

"Yes, Ó Ceallaigh. If you don't mind, ma'am, do tell us what it is you plan to do, now that you're here."

Myr nodded and answered, mauve-lit eyes glimmering, "Of course not—Sri, is it? As you must all know, Red contacted me a few months ago, at the beginning of all of this. Unfortunately, I was unable to join him immediately, due to a prior—engagement. Upon contact, Red related to me that he would soon initiate an orchestrated attack on certain members of the Nightworld elite, gathering as many similarly inclined Nightpeople as he possibly could, with whom he planned to craft—"

"An army formidable enough to confront the Marquéd." Heads whipped around to see Red stepping briskly into the dim room. "Hello, Myr."

Myr inclined her head. "Red." She met his gaze, and went on, "I was in the process of explaining to them my presence here."

"Certainly. Pray don't let me hamper you." Winn studied his craggy face, deep-set, steely eyes, and noted a mixture of respect, uneasiness and irritation there. So he respects this Myr—but he doesn't like her, does he? she thought, intrigued. He almost seems—*afraid*—of her…

Turning back to the group, Myr continued, "As I was saying, Red planned to create a sort of army for the rebellion—a sort of paramilitary, if you will. However, I think a different approach would be far more successful. I don't know how many of you realize that the only true members of this group are those of us here and maybe one or two more who are not present. The Marquéd are too many, too widespread, and too loosely joined for us to fight in a single confrontation. Thus, we must fight on their level, as a pervasive organization tightly organized but loosely situated. Sri asked what I plan to *do*. In short—and I don't believe in sparing words—I plan to make assassins out of you."

Exclamations tinged with shock and anger, excitement and horror, rang out. 

The young man Solo yanked his tweed postman's cap off with a jerky movement and crumpled it in a fist. His dark eyes glowed with deep anger. "I won't do it," he said in a clipped, husky voice, a distinct accent inflecting the words beautifully. 

Nona shook her wild-haired head sadly, and mumbled, "I knew it would happen, you know. I heard it."

Jon arranged his tophat more firmly on his head. Winn glanced at him, and noticed his bright yellow eyes flash with something raw and wild and frightening—something primal and animalistic. She looked away hurriedly.

Little Edmund—he looked as though he might have been ten years old—sprang up from the couch and ran his small hands through his shiny black hair. Winn met his shocked gaze for an instant and was disconcerted to see someone her own age staring back at her from those light-filled, hazel depths. 

Myr narrowed her vibrant, crystalline eyes fractionally, her beautiful mouth set in an expressionless line. Her bell-like voice cut through the others' voices. "I told you. I am not one to mince words. I do not care if your sensibilities have been outraged by my decision, and I do not care whether or not you refuse. Red has turned over leadership of this insurgence to me, as I have made surpassingly clear to all of you, and that means that I will do with this group what I consider to be most helpful to us in reaching our objective. However," she held up a hand, and continued, "I am giving each of you the opportunity to choose whether or not you will remain with the rebellion. Understand, though, that if you decide to leave us, you will not be welcomed back—under any circumstances. This project demands utter loyalty from its constituents and anyone too concerned with his or her pretensions and outdated morality is a weakness—a disease within the cause. Leave now, if you so decide, and forget us. Forget that you were ever a part of the one organization that can rid this molding city of its greatest malady—of those who may, if we fail, one day control the world. Forget and live in bliss." Myr's eyes flashed with an almost frightening intensity as she let her slender hand drop to her side. 

Everyone was silent. 

Winn, heart beating wildly and cheeks flushed the color of rosewater, scanned the faces of the group. Shelley, whose aura almost crackled with untrained power, was palpably nervous—a grimace twisting her friendly, unhandsome features. Tall, pale, wraith-like Asher, his bald skull gleaming like silver in the muted light, bit his bottom lip and clenched is long-fingered hands into fists in his lap. His gaunt, shockingly sweet face held still with some indescribable emotion. Winn shifted her dark gaze to Dianne, the slim, deaf young woman. She appeared, characteristically, utterly calm, her smooth, velvet-dark skin lustrous in the dim light; but when she met Winn's searching glance, Winn saw profoundly heartrending turmoil buried deep inside her bistre-colored eyes. Fiona, Winn noticed, had turned her pale, softly round face up, facing the dark-wood ceiling, drops of crystal shivering on her lashes. 

Winn stared down at her lap. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, pressed against her abdomen. Wrong, wrong, wrong, she thought. An assassin. Funny how I never imagined I'd become a cold-blooded mercenary. Not even with the Marquéd… She would be as bad as her parents, except that after a while she would be killing for money instead of torturing for pleasure. It evened out. She hadn't realized what all of this—turning into a mythical blood-sucking *thing*, being "discovered" by Lif and the Marquéd, meeting Ruan, being sent on this assignment, chancing upon Mara—meant for her. Sure, she knew that it was all positively insane—that it was madness that it had all happened in a matter of days. But she hadn't realized what it *meant*: her already pathetic life had tumbled into pure, unadulterated, Grade A shit. She fought the urge to laugh hysterically, instead squeezing her eyes shut and biting her bottom lip. 

Suddenly, a flash of electricity tickled her brain and in an instant the electric connection between her and Ruan's minds burst open. As if all of this wasn't enough, she thought caustically. 

~~Don't tell me you thought it would be, partridge.~~

Winn managed not to flinch as Ruan's telepathy burned through the surface of her mind and dipped deep into recesses she hadn't known she possessed. She was almost used to his mental heat—or at least numb to it—but she was still surprised at the striking contrast between his physical persona and his mental presence: one cold as an Arctic night, the other blistering as the naked sun.

~~I thought it would be,~~ Winn projected, a deliberate sharpness edging the thought. She could feel Ruan smile sharply at that.

~~Your hell, your problem. I see you've all met Myr. Nice, isn't she?~~

~~Charming.~~

~~She wants to make an assassins' ring out of you…typical. She always was ambitious.~~ He was almost talking to himself, Winn noted with curiosity.

~~How do you know her so well?~~ 

Ruan lost the smile and narrowed his eyes. ~~Nosy, aren't you, partridge?~~

But Winn could already sense memories bubbling up to the surface, memories of a seemingly impetuous but in reality ruthlessly motivated girl with sand-colored hair and purple-lit eyes. Old memories.

She didn't want to get involved in that. Instead, she pulled slightly away from his mind, though letting him remain connected so that he could see and hear what was going on more easily, and concentrated on Myr, who had just begun saying something.

"…she the only one, then?" Myr asked, leveling her gaze at everyone, her eyes lingering on Winn, in which Winn thought she detected a piercing, questioning, utterly suspicious glint.

She shifted her gaze to wild-haired Nona, who had moved away from the group, chin tucked against her chest, and was trudging toward the door. "I can't do this…I'm just an old cat…an old woman. Can't do this…" she mumbled, half to herself. 

An old cat? Winn thought, puzzled. She must be a shapeshifter…

"Nona," Myr called.

Nona turned halfway around and stared in the girl's general direction. 

"You will forget us, do you understand? Forget us entirely. If you leave us, you will have no memory of any of your connections here—to anyone, anyplace, or anything. However long you've known about this place and our plans will be gone from your memory as soon as you walk out of this building—do you understand?"

Nona frowned vaguely and then nodded. She turned to walk away.

"No!" the young man called Solo cried. "She's hardly lucid as it is! She's known about this from the beginning—that's almost a year! She hasn't got anything. Don't take her *memories*," he spat. He turned to Red searchingly, but the older man's eyes were shuttered, his mouth set in a grim line. "Red, you can't let her."

"It's her choice, Solo," Red muttered, turning away.

Myr tilted her head to the side and studied Solo as though he had suddenly become very interesting. Solo took a deep breath and held his shoulders high; his face went very still and he refused to look at her or anyone. 

Nona turned and walked away. 

            "So she is the only one. Good. Now I think you're all wondering how I plan to carry out this notion of mine. I have already made arrangements for us to join a well-established organization."

            Sri glanced up, shaking white hair out of her eyes, for once almost subdued, and asked hesitantly, "Which—organization?"

            Myr smiled a curiously demure little smile, and answered, "Oh, I think you've all heard of it. We're going to join Morteflame."

* * *

            Ruan had forgotten what it was like to feel shock. But once again, Myr had managed to shake him. He knew she must be planning something bigger than this rebellion. Something…apocalyptic. 

Morteflame… Ah, of course. He never failed to be surprised at Myr's devastatingly shrewd manipulative abilities. Morteflame was the quintessential Nightworld organization, and embodied the principles of the Marquéd; thus, if the rebels joined Morteflame, they would essentially infiltrate the Marquéd, using the highly classified data only Morteflame could possibly possess to undermine the Marquéd from *within*. The consummate inside joke—pun very much intended. 

This would be interesting. But it also meant that until the group was actually inside of Morteflame, he and Winn had to keep Lif from acting. Although, in reality, it would be best for Lif to strike now, while the rebels were all in one place, Ruan wasn't ready for the end of the game. 

Yes, Ruan thought, This will be very interesting indeed.   

* * *

            Ruan strode through the unlit corridors woven through the backrooms, clad in a rumpled t-shirt and jeans, as though he'd just woken up. Actually, he hadn't slept at all; he had been lying in bed, thinking, when an urgent flash of emotion had pierced his thoughts. He had ignored it, dismissing it as one of Winn's dreams, but then he remembered something from the night before, when he had gone after the girl. 

            She had lied to him. 

            He had known it the moment she told him, oh so hesitantly, that she had been thinking about her *past*, but she had sidetracked him so effectively with her outburst that he'd almost forgotten. Almost.

            She was keeping something from him, and to have distressed her enough to make a scene like the one she had made, it was something important. She knew something, or at least suspected something—what, he couldn't quite say. Which meant that he should find out.  

            He stepped quietly into Winn's room, several doors down from his own. The girl was curled into a ball on the bed, lost in a huge, grey wool sweater that reached past her knees. He glided over to the edge of the bed and stared down at her.

            "Winnen-little," he murmured softly.

            Her eyelids twitched and then snapped open. Taking in the dark, moonlit figure standing beside her bed, Winn sat up abruptly, pushing her hair out of her face and shrinking deeper into her sweater. "Ruan? What's going on?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself

            Ruan stared down at her without expression, and held a finger to his lips, signaling to her to speak softly. 

            Winn's sable eyes were huge in her face; she seemed almost afraid of him.

            Ruan's smiled as he peered down at her from hooded eyes. He noticed that the wide collar of her sweater had slipped down on one side; a pale shoulder peeped out, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He stared pointedly at the exposed skin, until Winn followed his gaze and realized what he was looking at. Flushing, she yanked the sweater back onto her shoulder, and, glaring at him from under her lashes, scooted further away from the edge of the bed, as though it or the vampire before it were oblivion.

            With a movement so fluid Winn's eyes could barely follow it, Ruan suddenly appeared, sitting with his legs tucked under him, less than a foot away from her on the bed. Winn jerked away reflexively, and tensed her leg muscles, as though preparing to spring. 

Sensing the tension in her, Ruan quirked an eyebrow and smiled lazily. "You know, partridge, you really should relax a bit…I'm not exactly the bogeyman you seem to think me."

"Aren't you, though?" Winn whispered harshly.

Ruan tilted his head to the side, bird-like, and the smile faded slightly. "On second thought, I suppose I am." His eyes gleamed with a cold, opaque fire. "Does that frighten you, partridge?"

Her cheeks blanched to an ashy, bleached-bone color; the usual rosy tint fled her lips. He knew the answer even before she opened her mouth to speak, before feeling her thoughts and emotions through the soulmate link. 

Winn stared unabashedly back at him, and replied softly, "You know it does. You know *you* do."

Lips slightly parted, Ruan brushed a strand of unnaturally bright wine-red hair off his milk-white brow. He studied her face. A delicate facial shape, with sharp cheekbones, a fragile jawline, and a slightly pointed chin made her face seem elfin, faerie-like; a small mouth at once submissive and feral made her face a paradox; a soot-black cloud of hair framing the shocking paleness of skin gave her something of the Nightpeople's ethereal quality; large, intensely black eyes, wounded but not lightless, and edged by fine dark brows had the disturbing quality of drawing—no, sucking—in the person at whom they stared. Was she pretty? Ruan couldn't quite decide, and didn't think he cared very much, either. 

Amusedly, he watched as her eyes grew less focused, and became clouded with uncertainty—she flushed under his relentless scrutiny. 

Finally, Ruan murmured, smiling faintly, "Partridge, I've been meaning to ask you something."

Winn's eyes snapped back into focus, the blush fading, and gazed back warily.

"You lied to me, partridge."

Ruan felt her recoil mentally from the accusation as well as the slender tendrils of thought he sent to probe her mind. "What are you talking about?" she asked, irritation masking the anxiety he could feel gnawing at the corners of her mind. 

"I think you remember, my diminutive imp," he said, feeling a current of irrational fear tear through her thoughts. "Your *past* wasn't the only thing you were thinking about last night, now was it? So do tell, Winnen-little, what it was you were so absorbed in pondering."

Eyes widening slightly, mouth tightening, Winn edged further away from Ruan, and answered softly, "It doesn't concern you. My hell, remember?"

"Your hell is all yours, partridge, but your dreams belong to me." He moved closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes, until they were just inches away. In a mild voice, he said softly, "Tell me. If you don't, I can always rip it out of your mind—and you can be sure I'll make it hurt."

            Winn clenched her jaw, her brows drawn together. "I can't."

            Ruan leaned closer still, until he could feel the electricity between them flare up and crackle, as though it were trying to draw him nearer to her. He smiled at the fear that suddenly flickered darkly in her eyes, and whispered conspiratorially, "I really don't care, partridge." 

            With a movement too fast for her eyes to follow, he gripped her under the jaws, digging his fingers into the delicate flesh between her jaw and throat. Ignoring the painful intensity of skin-to-skin contact, she instinctively reached up and clawed wildly at his lean wrist, drawing blood. 

            Eyes gleaming cobalt, Ruan murmured, "I'll rip your throat out, partridge."

            "You can't!" Winn gasped, still struggling. "You'd waste—away! I know how this fucking link—works. So you—can't."

            "Wrong, Winnen. It would be painful—but I wouldn't die. And I've never been adverse to a bit of pain."

            "I hate—you."

            "And I couldn't care less about you, partridge, but what's a soulmate to do?" His hand tensed around her throat.

            "Let go! Let—go—of me. I'll tell you!"

            He released her and she fell back, coughing. Utterly still, he watched the color drain away from her face as she struggled to sit back up. 

            Winn sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and said, "I was thinking about something Sri told me—she said that Jasper had given her a—a manuscript about some ancient, Irish vampire called Elmyr."

            Ruan felt a surge of excitement, but did not allow himself to show expression, waiting for her to continue.

            "I recalled the name from something a friend told me awhile ago, when I was still human," she mumbled, chuckling harshly. "About how a couple thousand years ago there was a vampire woman who was so powerful nothing of the like has been seen since. My friend also told me what she—Elmyr—was supposed to have looked like. Beautiful, she said, with violet eyes and 'sand-colored hair'. And that's it, Ruan Ferrin. That's what you so insisted on knowing." Her dark eyes flared with anger, with fear, with confusion and with something akin to…sadness. 

            Ruan studied her face…She seemed sincere. The fear, the confusion, the resentment…Yes, she was sincere. Besides, this Elmyr was far more interesting—she sounded like the same woman as the nameless vampire queen he had read about so long ago. He narrowed his eyes. "Wait—you said violet eyes and sandy hair. Was she tall—about ye high? And slim? And you said she was beautiful?" 

            Winn nodded guardedly.

            This was sounding very familiar indeed…But was it even feasible? Or was it merely coincidence? Of course, the Harman witches were famed for their violet-eyed, platinum-haired beauty, but when had he ever seen a vampire like that? Only one in all his years…only *one*. And then there were the names…

            He looked up to find Winn staring at him with disgust naked on her face. "Like what you see?"

            "Get out."

            He smiled and made as though to turn away, but instead ducked closer to her, and from inches away whispered into her ear, "Remember what I said, Winn. Your hell is yours, but your dreams are *mine*." 

            The next instant, Ruan was gliding down the hall, Winn all but forgotten as he pondered a new revelation. 

It was time to have a chat with Myr.  

 I would love—no, I would *savor* your comments! Ramen and chocolate to all who review!

Your chum, 

Mogget ::smiley face::


	11. Chapter 11

I'm thinking this was a pretty fast update, eh? Maybe this'll be a new pattern. Huh. Read on…!

Kris: How do? Thanks for the lovely praise. I'm red as a sugar plum tomato right now…Thanks again for the review and do read on…!

galaktis: I know, I've been eating ramen everyday for the past couple weeks (we have a huge box of the stuff). Yeah, Winn and Ruan have been getting pretty—ah—lively, lately. Makes it all the more interesting to write about them, I think. It should be interesting to see how Myr plays into the whole relationship between the two…Thanks a ton for the review, and read on!

skylark: Heh, heh! First off, I'm superlatively glad you're liking the story. Yup, "Ó Ceallaigh" is an Irish name, as are "Fionna" and "Faolán" (you'll see the latter in this chapter). Interesting that you think Mogget's Irish too…maybe it's subconscious. Neat-o. You know, I'm not *Irish* Irish, but I *am* of Irish descent, so I'm getting really interested in Irish lore and name-ology…maybe some Irish mythology'll even sneak into this story. Hmm. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing, and please read on…!

Dulce Ambrosia: Hi there! Glad you're liking the twistiness so far; I know I'm enjoying seeing it progress. Myr's a mystery sometimes even to me—and her "plans" should be interesting to see realized. I hope this update was relatively quick…Thanks a million for your lovely review, and read on…!

Moreta: Hullo! I'm so glad that you decided to read the story and enjoyed it. I'm very flattered that you like the language and description—in truth, I sometimes wonder that I get carried away. I love language—when I read stories and such, beautiful language often makes me fall in love with the work. I'm also utterly happy that you find the characters "multi-faceted"; it certainly makes it all the more interesting to write about them when they're all twisty-like. Thank you so much for reviewing, and I hope you'll read on…!  

Name Pronunciation/Meaning Guide:

Faolán (FWAY-lahn): Gaelic first name meaning "wolf."

Fionna (Fee-OH-nah): Gaelic first name meaning "fair" or "white"

Ó Ceallaigh (Oh KAHL-leh): An ancient, Gaelic surname meaning "strife."

Ruan (RUE-ahn): Cornish. Dunno what it means.   

Chapter 11: Marquéd

            Madness—this is sheer madness. No one wakes up at seven o' clock in the morning, Winn thought crossly as she hurried through a corridor. Myr had decided that an early start was crucial to the realization of her plans. 

            Stepping into Myr's spacious, lamp-lit room, Winn noticed that some of the others were already comfortably situated in the ring of couches and sofa chairs: Sri sat with blue-haired Shelley, animatedly discussing something to do with power-levels and telekinesis, while Asher and Edmund perched in the center of the ring on a gorgeous red-wool rug with their legs tucked under them, eyes closed, and backs very straight. 

            Winn blinked, bemused, a smile tugging at her lips. Stepping carefully around the meditating pair, she sank down into a velvety chocolate-colored couch across from Shelley and Sri, tucking her legs under herself.  

            Sri glanced over at her, and with a grin called, "How do, Winn? Didja sleep well last night?"

            "I slept fine, Sri," Winn replied softly, baffled by the mischievous glint in the young woman's black eyes.

Shelley's eyebrows quirked at that. Cocking her head, she asked bluntly, "What's this about last night, Winn?"

Winn shrugged, turning to Sri with a questioning glance.

Jasper stepped out of the adjoining kitchen, causing Winn to start. A lazy smile curving his handsome lips, he answered, "You see, Shelley, last night—by several accounts—there were strange susurrations coming from a certain vampiress's room..." 

Winn frowned. What was he insinuating? 

Shelley raised a blue eyebrow, flicking glances at Winn, and responded skeptically, "Really. And how did you happen to learn all this, love?"

Jasper smirked and said in a mock-conspiratorial tone, "Well, Shells, it so happens that my room is conveniently located precisely adjacent to our little vampiress's own. I'd just returned from—feeding—when I passed her door, and, to my complete astonishment detected voices—yes, plural—coming from within. Naturally, I was intrigued…"

Winn narrowed her eyes, annoyed.

 "Naturally," Shelley echoed wryly. 

"Gasp," Sri muttered, grinning.

 "And so I investigated. Meaning, of course, that I eavesdropped shamelessly."

"So…what's the point of all this?" Shelley prodded.

"I couldn't quite make out *what* they said, exactly—"

Shelley snorted with laughter.

"But that's beside the point. Because, Shells, I could tell *who* was speaking." Jasper grinned and deliberately directed his gaze at Winn. "The visitor was our resident icicle: Ruan Ferrin."

Winn clamped her mouth shut and sucked in a sharp breath through her nostrils. Of course she had realized what he was getting at, but she had waited it out, allowing Jasper to set his rumor amuck, realizing that perhaps if she and Ruan were pegged as a couple, they wouldn't have to explain their rather shady relationship to everyone. Looking up, she realized everyone in the room—Jasper, Sri, Shelley, and even Asher and Edmund—were staring at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Winn sighed almost imperceptibly and allowed her features to settle into an expression of indifference and calm. "You know, Jasper, you *are* an asshole," she announced softly.

Jasper grinned wider, and replied jovially, "And proud of it."

Shelley brushed a strand of blue hair off her forehead, nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, Jasper, you really are an asshole."

"A queen amongst assholes, really," Sri piped up, on the verge of laughter.

Asher and Edmund exchanged amused expressions.

Jasper shrugged, an attempt at nonchalance, but Winn detected slight discomfiture in his face and stance. He turned to Winn and queried accusingly, "But you don't deny it, do you, little Winn? Ferrin *was* in your room last night, wasn't he?"

"He certainly was." 

Winn glanced over in the direction of the new voice, surprised. Ruan stepped through the doorway and leaned indolently against the wall, long arms crossed over his chest. Meeting his sardonic glance, Winn projected hurriedly, ~~Did you hear?~~

~~Yes.~~

~~Well, then?~~

~~We play along, partridge.~~ Ruan broke the connection, and turned toward Jasper. 

"Salutations, Ruan," Sri called with a friendly smile. Shelley smiled, and the two young men sitting on the rug nodded amiably. 

Jasper narrowed his eyes, smile growing stiff. "So it's true, then?"

Ruan nodded languorously, eyes hooded. "I don't think Winnen and I have ever quite explained our relationship to all of you." Winn knew what was coming; she could feel his intentions through the link, even dulled as it was at the present. The group leaned forward expectantly. "Winnen and I are soulmates."

Winn winced. Shelley's mouth formed a perfect "O", Sri's jaw dropped, Edmund's clear hazel eyes widened, and Asher's sweet, bone-white face registered shock. 

Jasper eyes narrowed slyly. "I knew it. I knew something was off about you two, always acting so strangely when the other's near."

Sri blinked and asked promptly, "When did you find out? *How* did you find out? How does it *feel*?"

Everyone looked up as Myr brushed breezily past Ruan into the room. "Soulmates, Ruan?" she interrupted softly. "I thought I sensed something odd in that girl of yours. Although I do admit I didn't realize just how interesting it would prove to be." 

Biting her tongue on a sharp rebuttal and ignoring the surge of hot anger in her chest, Winn turned away from Ruan and the beautiful girl beside him. I am not *his*, she thought harshly. 

"And it is, Myr, very…interesting," Ruan returned with an odd smirk curving his perfect mouth. 

"I'm sure," Jasper muttered. His turquoise eyes brightened roguishly. "On which note I maintain that neither of you has yet explained what you were doing in Winn's room last night. Forgive my curiosity."

Edmund rolled his eyes and muttered, "Queen amongst assholes, indeed."

            "What do you think we were doing?" Ruan questioned lazily, flicking a quick glance at Winn, who was very pointedly looking away.

            "Making passionate love?" Jasper replied, an impish, almost malicious gleam in his intense eyes.

            "You decide," Ruan returned with a tone of bored finality. Leaving Myr's side, he strode over to Winn, who sat curled tightly in the corner of the brown velvet couch, and sat down a couple feet away from her. 

            A wave of electricity washed over her, making her shiver involuntarily. She clenched her hands into fists, digging her nails into the smooth flesh of her palms. God, she hated this…she *hated* this. Blind anger surged through her. Soulmates. Everything she'd ever read or heard about soulmates said that they were supposed to love each other more than anything in the world, that they were supposed to live in complete bliss, two equal parts of one perfect whole. But it isn't that way at all, she thought, relaxing her fingers and sinking further into the cushions. Ruan doesn't *want* me…he doesn't know who or what I am…he doesn't want to know… And she didn't want him either. She had no liking, no feeling, no love for him. He was…empty, and his barrenness seeped into her soul.

            Drawing in a shallow breath, Winn folded her hands in her lap, and shut those disturbing thoughts out. She looked up and realized that Jon, Solo, Dianne, and Fiona had already arrived and were settled around the room. Myr stood at the head of the ring of chairs, hands clasped delicately before her.

            A moment later, Red stepped into the room and the meeting began.

            "We have much to accomplish within the next three days; on Friday, we will officially merge with Morteflame. When you join the organization, you will be working with a partner on every assignment." Myr turned to Sri, and continued, "Sri, you will work with Shelley; Fionna—Jon; Asher and Edmund, Solo and Dianne." A tiny smile curled her soft mouth as she turned to Winn and Ruan. "And Ruan, you can work with your—soulmate," she murmured, laughter trembling beneath the words. "Jasper, you will be my partner. Red, you will remain here and oversee the club." 

            Sri frowned. "Ms. Ó Ceallaigh, do you realize how suspicious it'll seem when we go to—Morteflame—on Friday? I'm certainly no genius, but it seems to me that twelve untrained, unknown wannabe assassins strutting straight into HQ are going to create a bit of disquiet, don't you think?"

            Myr answered smoothly, in clear, silvery tones, "Oh, dear, you won't have to worry about that at all. I've had a memory-clouding spell placed on Morteflame officials. Any other questions?"

            Winn started a little. A witch? They had a witch working for them? And though she was hardly knowledgeable of witchery, Winn wondered just how powerful a witch needed to be to cloud the minds of some of the strongest vampirae living.  

            After Myr had thoroughly discussed her plans for infiltrating the Marquéd and undermining them from the inside, the meeting broke and everyone left for their rooms or the club. Winn hurried down the corridor towards her room. Three days, she thought wearily. Three days. 

* * *                  

            Three days blinked in and out of existence, and Friday morning saw Myr's group gathered in the rain-slick alley behind their nameless building. The sky hung low and heavy with purplish-grey clouds, smoky wisps of lavender nebulae crowned the tallest buildings, and Ruan felt a rush of cold excitement course through him like fresh blood. 

            Myr Ó Ceallaigh, supple hair pulled back into a smooth bun, and clad in a chocolate-brown tweed skirt and grey sweater under a gorgeous taupe wool coat, smiled at the anxious, pinched faces around her. Jasper and Ruan were the only Nightpeople whose stunning, finely molded faces remained free of fear and tension; Jasper maintained an indifferent, lazy expression, while Ruan's piercingly frost-blue eyes and relaxed mouth augmented his usual icy demeanor. 

            Myr tilted her glossy head to the side, as though listening for something, and a moment later the group of Nightpeople watched warily as a nondescript, dove-grey car tear around the corner and into the shadowed alley, followed by two more identical to the first. The first car jerked to a stop a few feet away from the nearest Nightpeople, followed by the others. The purple-eyed young woman strode gracefully over to the first car, and turned back to the group. 

            "All right. Fionna, Jon, Asher and Edmund, you're in the third car. Solo, Dianne, Sri, and Shelley, you're in the second, and Jasper, Ruan, and Winnen go with me in the first. We're off." 

Sudden stillness, and then the group scattered.

            Moments later, Winn sat wedged between Jasper and Ruan as the car pulled out of the alley and down a smoky street. Ruan noticed that the girl had wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and seemed to be trying to edge away from him. 

            They were pressed so close: his hip, shoulder and thigh were molded against hers; he could feel the link flare up and crackle between their bodies as he soaked in the warmth radiating from her veiled skin. He could feel a faint shiver run through her body as the coldness of his own seeped into her. He almost smiled at that. Almost.

            Ruan watched, amused, as she unconsciously leaned into Jasper. The unsuspecting vampire started almost imperceptibly, swiveling his head to witness a smoky cloud of curls brush lightly against his coat even as the girl's shoulder pressed into his own.  

            Eyes hooded, dark and dense, Ruan studied the male vampire's expression from the corner of his eye—a blend of irritation, surprise, and interest. As he gazed down at Winn, Jasper's shockingly turquoise irises sparked with an indefinable fire—a fire that intrigued Ruan because it seemed to denote some kind of hidden, secret knowledge. 

            Now that he pondered it, Ruan thought he recalled a similar expression in Myr's eyes when she had first laid eyes on Winnen Fallou—a darkly furtive, almost smug expression that made him think of storm clouds and long forgotten secrets. 

            What is it about Winnen Fallou that makes people want to either snuff or study her? he wondered, faintly intrigued. 

            Jasper suddenly looked up, as though his head had been wrenched up by an invisible hand, and met Ruan's paradoxically wintry-yet-blistering gaze, a strange, knowing smile curving his finely chiseled mouth. Ruan stared back, his face expressionless but his eyes gleaming with a detached and silent menace. 

            Jasper looked away first—Ruan was used to that, because as far back as he could remember, everyone had always looked away first. It was as though they all could see the gaping hole where his soul, his passions, his loves, his hates, his *humanity* should have been. He had always considered this a mixed blessing; he enjoyed having so much power over the people around him, and yet he always felt a stab of something he couldn't quite define when they looked away, faces so disturbed, so frightened. He felt almost…confused when it happened, and slightly frustrated—it wasn't as though he could help the emptiness they considered so prevalent within him…

            The car jerked to a stop. Winn, who had been staring off into space throughout the drive, started, eyes widening, and clutched at her seatbelt. Glancing through the darkly tinted window, Ruan noticed that they had driven deep into the rich residential areas of northeast Melas and halted in front of a massive, dark grey mansion, circa 19th century. Only two other mansions were anywhere near, and they were perhaps a block away on either side. The enormous structure sat high on a dewy, leaf-covered hill that overlooked the entire, dingy-yet-sparkling city of Melas, a sea of light and sound, energy and gloom. Behind the stony edifice a thick, shadowed wood stretched across hills in an endless swathe of mist-wreathed indigo, a gnarled, labyrinthine death-trap for those unwary enough to venture within. Not unlike the Morteflame stronghold itself, Ruan thought, amused and intrigued. 

            Moments later, the anxious-eager group stood on the wide, grey marble steps, staring up at a huge, dark-wood pair of doors. Violet eyes flashing, Myr smoothed her gleaming hair and smiled. "Well," she said brightly. "This is Morteflame headquarters—on the east coast, at least—and where you'll be spending quite a lot of time."

            "Will we live here?" Fionna asked, her soft, round face pale in the bluish morning light. 

            "That will be discussed and explained later," Myr replied, irritation coloring her lilting voice.     

            Ruan smiled slightly at her familiar impatience; perhaps she was not precisely what he had always thought her to be—perhaps she was much, much more—but she was still her impetuous self. 

            Hearing the faint scrape of wood on stone, Ruan and the rest of the group looked swiftly up to see the great dark doors swing open. A very slender young man of medium height stood in the center of the shaded doorway, his feet together, back very straight, and russet hair cascading over his down-turned face. He wore a slimly tailored black jacket that fell to his hips, and narrow, dark grey trousers, all very neatly pressed and arranged.

            As the group stared at this odd apparition, the young man announced in soft, clipped tones, "Welcome to Morteflame. Come." With that, he turned sharply, not bothering to beckon to the group, and began walking unhurriedly away. 

* * *      

            The reception hall was immense. And so…austere, Winn thought, gazing up at the arching ceiling high above, and the gorgeous silver-and-iron chandelier dangling from it. Austere and beautiful.

            Their shoes clicked on the glassy marble floor as they trailed after the brown-haired young man through a long, high-ceilinged hall and into what appeared to be some kind of office, furnished with rich, dark-wood furniture, and spare, modish sofas upholstered in creamy beige. Half of one huge wall was made up entirely of differently-sized windows, a dark desk stark against the grey light filtering through. As Winn's eyes adjusted to the abrupt change in lighting, she realized that someone was sitting behind the desk, facing them, his or her face turned down. 

            The group drifted after their silent guide toward the desk, halting several feet away. The person stood with a motion so fluid even Winn's sharp eyes could hardly follow it, and stepped around the desk, stopping directly before Myr, who stood at the head of the group. As the person moved into the light, Winn realized that the person was a very tall, very handsome man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Winn knew instinctively that he was a vampire, and a very powerful one. He wore a coat and trousers similar to the brown-haired man's, but his were entirely black, and  His face was archetypically beautiful—all angular lines, high cheekbones, and slender elegance highlighted by startlingly green eyes and smooth, flaxen hair pulled into a tapered queue. As Winn stared, his gaze suddenly shifted to her from Myr, catching her eyes with his own vibrant pair; Winn shivered, eyes narrowed, and stared back, finding with a shock that the glassy emptiness, the aching coldness in eyes surpassed even Ruan's. 

Ruan may lack compassion and humanity, but this man has no soul… 

            The man's gaze snapped back to Myr. "Welcome, Myr Ó Ceallaigh. It is good to have new members, indeed. Fresh blood, if you will," he murmured in a smooth, uninflected, iron-cold voice. Winn couldn't be sure if he was joking about that last part. He scanned the group, and continued, "We of Morteflame welcome you to the service of the Council, Marquéd, and Nightworld common. I am called Faolán and this—" he gestured sharply at the brown-haired young man who stood a few feet to the left of him— "is Willem. He will now show you to your rooms." 

            As Willem led them away, Winn glanced swiftly back at the flaxen-haired Morteflame leader—and was jolted when she found that he was staring at her with hard, searching eyes. She turned hurriedly away and picked up her pace. What does he see? she wondered, dread gnawing at her insides. Can he see…inside? Like—Ruan? She had a terrible suspicion that he was capable of that and much more…something in his posture, gaze, and voice told her that he was far more powerful than most vampirae would ever dream of being…and that he would not hesitate to destroy her. And yet, she thought, despite this power, Myr said that a witch had clouded the minds of Morteflame officials. Surely this Faolán is included. But what witch could possibly have enough power to influence *his* mind? 

She was almost trembling with anxiety. This was fast becoming far too much for her to handle.

* * *                       

            Willem showed them the two rooms they would use as residence whenever they needed to stay at Morteflame headquarters, or the Hole, as the resident employees had lovingly named it. 

            Winn sat on the edge of her bed and looked around. She and the rest of the women would stay in this room while the men would stay in an identical room next door. The grey-walled room wasn't much to look at. Two rows of three beds each were lined up against two walls opposite each other, each with a small lamp on a tiny bedside table. A beige couch and a few sofa chairs were arranged in a rough circle around the room's single window on the far wall. Winn hoped she wouldn't have to stay here often.

            As though that were the least of my troubles, she thought. How was she supposed to learn how to assassinate people?  

            Myr was absent while Fionna, Sri, Shelley, and Dianne were all sprawled or perched on their beds, looking about as dazed as Winn felt.

            Shelley propped herself up on her elbow, brushing her choppy blue hair off her forehead. "So. This is interesting," she said.

            From her cross-legged perch in the middle of her bed, Sri grinned. "What, the prospect of living the glamorous double life of an assassin in the most elite assassins' organization in the world or Winn's shocking predicament with our very own living icicle?"    

            Fionna, who was lying on her stomach with her chin on her crossed arms, rolled her eyes and retorted, "Leave the poor thing alone, will you? Really. She has enough to worry about with that frightful boy of hers."

            Dianne, slender and graceful where she sat on her bed with her legs folded under her, was apparently very quick at reading lips and nodded in agreement, casting a sympathetic glance at Winn.

            Sri was unfazed. She turned to Winn, the usual curious smile playing about her lips and glittering in her eyes. "I can't help being inquisitive—it's in the damn genes. So, Winn, what's it like? I mean, sure, I've heard a ton of stories about the infamous soulmate link, but it always sounds so…fluffy. Reminds me of frosting and Molly Ringwald movies. Personally, I think Daybreak is hyping it all up to get recruits. Manipulative bastards. So, Winn?"

            What was this Daybreak? She stored the name in the back of her brain for future contemplation and narrowed her eyes. Her relationship with Ruan was nothing good, and nothing she wanted to think about. It was, in truth, nothing. It meant nothing and she didn't want it to change, other than to disappear. Might as well tell them, she thought. They already know…and wouldn't it help me connect with them more? Isn't that what Lif wanted? She tilted her head to the side and replied thoughtfully, softly, "It's difficult, I think. Being open all the time and not wanting it."

"What do you mean, 'not wanting it'?" Shelley asked, surprised.

            Winn drew her knees up under her chin and answered, "Whatever's responsible for this link makes mistakes, sometimes, I think. It made a mistake with Ruan Ferrin and me, anyway. He's empty, you know."

            Fionna drew her eyebrows together, as though recalling something ugly and best forgotten. Wisps of downy near-white hair stuck out on all sides around her softly rounded face as she murmured, "I met someone like Ruan once. Abstractly, I know that he was gorgeous, achingly smart, outrageously rich and powerful, a falcon shapeshifter, like me. But for all of that, all I can remember about the way he looked are his eyes…they were so lifeless and alien. As though the world wasn't real and that he was accordingly allowed to hurt and kill and destroy life to make up for the life and humanity he didn't have."

            "Sounds like a scary guy," Sri muttered.

            "Yeah," Fionna answered dully, her rich brown eyes filled with some deep, painful emotion. "He killed my family."

            Sri flinched and said in a low tone, "I'm sorry…"

"It's fine. It was a long time ago," Fionna replied tersely. "Anyway, tell us more, Winn."

Winn kept her face impassive, gripping her legs more tightly. "It hurts, sometimes. His—mental—voice is strange, both hot and cold and when he uses it it near rips my head apart." Winn noticed a flash of recognition pass over Shelley's face. "He likes that, I think. He enjoys hurting people, as though he can control them that way, and pretend that being empty is good for something."

On the corner bed Dianne was peering at her thoughtfully, empathetically, and across from her Sri was frowning at her comforter, blinking with a mixture of uneasiness and triumph at having her suppositions about the link proven. 

Winn took a deep breath. She was suddenly very clear on one thing: she hated Ruan Ferrin, and she would destroy him if she ever got the chance, even at the risk of losing her sanity.

A moment later, they heard a knock on the door, effectively breaking the quiet. Sri sprang off her bed and opened the door quickly, revealing the impassive, brown-haired Willem, his head once again turned down, with longish russet locks obscuring his face. "How do, Mr. Willem?" Sri piped.

Willem didn't answer, instead announcing in a low voice, "Faolán has ordered a meeting. Come." He turned and made his way down the hall without waiting for a response. 

Feeling more exposed than she ever had in her life, Winn hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself. An assassin, then, with Ruan Ferrin. For now.      

Please comment! I am enchanted and enraptured by what you have to say…plus, I'll throw in some Hot 'n Spicy ramen…

Shocked and Confused,                                                                                                    

Mogget ::smiley face::  


	12. Chapter 12

The world is such a stubborn horse. Sorry about the disgustingly late update—I really am appalled. You should be too. Give me a talking-to, will you? Anyway, I'm hoping you'll enjoy this chapter, and please do drop a comment in the blue box…

Tamashii: Hullo…! The plot'll become even twistier soon…you'll see. About Ruan, he's supposed to have something missing, something most other creatures have: compassion and humanity. Because of that, he's not quite right in the way he relates with other people. Please tell me if I've accomplished that characterization at all—he should be empty, but he should also be real. Muchisimas gracias for the review, and do read on… 

brigit: How do? Glad you think the story's not too reminiscent of "frosting and Molly Ringwald movies"—certainly elements I think it could do without. Yeah, Winn's a pretty miserable wretch. Hopefully she'll grow a bit more backbone with which she can deal with Ruan better. Winn doesn't know much at all about the Nightworld. She had no knowledge of it before being changed, and the Marquéd are a tight-lipped bunch. All she knows about the Nightworld is based on what Mara told her—she knows that shapeshifters, werewolves and witches exist, but she knows very little of Nightworld lore and law. Four thousand thank you's for your review, and please read on…

galaktis: Hallo, hallo! Glad you're liking the minor character development. There isn't much—at all—in this chapter, but there'll be much more interaction in the next. Read on…

OnKloudNyne: Hiya. Delighted that you've been enjoying the story, and I hope you'll keep reading. Thanks a ton for the lovely review, and do read on…

SpooK: Hello! Most happy that you're liking the pairing…I do enjoy the bad-boy/sorta-good-girl madness myself…it'll get a bit more interesting in this chapter, I think. Thanks so much for reviewing, and do read on…

crystalfire: Hullo. Sorry about the confusion! Yeah, the relationship between Winn and Ruan is a real bed of thorns. About the pairing up and happy ending business, we'll see. :) Thanks for reviewing, and do read on…

angelphire: Man-o-man. Ramen in your blood? Madness. Absolutely scrumptious madness. You know, I'm glad you told me about the restlessness—I was feeling the same way, I just needed some prompting to get going. Anyway, I hope this chapter provides a bit more action. Next chapter'll give more direction to the story, I think. Thanks so much for reviewing, and do read on…

Chapter 12: Marquéd

            Three weeks of training flew by in a blur, during which each of the newcomers' strengths were pinpointed and developed with guidance from Morteflame regulars. During that time none of the new members—except, of course, for Myr—caught even a glimpse of Faolán, the elusive Morteflame leader, not that they expected to, really, since nearly every Morteflame member they had encountered since their induction had told them all about Faolán's elusive habits. 

            Winn supposed Ruan had kept up contact with Lif, though he had never mentioned anything of the sort to her. In fact, during the past three weeks Ruan hadn't really seemed to notice her or anyone—he had climbed back into his ice-encrusted shell, aloof and perfectly unconcerned with everyone around him. Consequently, she and Ruan had spoken scarcely ten words to each other throughout the past few weeks, and the only times she saw him were during their daily training sessions. 

            Their Morteflame trainers—a tall young man called Bjorn and a slightly older woman named Ophelia—had, upon first meeting Winn and Ruan, immediately pinpointed Winn as the more burdensome of the two. Her lips tightened as she recollecting the cold scrutiny the two assassins had put her through. First, they had cut her hair, as all of the other girls in the new group had been ordered to do, and she could no longer hide behind her tangled fall of curls. In fact, her whole damn face was bared, including the faded scars bordering her hairline, and her head was now topped off with a strange-looking shock of short, sooty curls. Cowlicks protruded erratically, springing wild and fey-like from a delicate skull.  

            Second, Ophelia had very unceremoniously plunged straight into her brain, pawing through half-forgotten memories, secrets, and nightmares best left in obscurity, storing away the ones she deemed most useful, though she had not gone so deep as to discover Winn and Ruan's true objectives. Winn was not sure if Ruan had undergone similar treatment—somehow, she doubted it. He was far too menacing and far too advanced even for these two highly trained professionals. 

Finally, both Bjorn and Ophelia had conducted ruthless, unending physical and psychological exercises and tests, trying to get Winn into shape as quickly as possible. 

            Not that it worked. And she didn't think she liked them very much, either.

* * *    

            Ruan sat up with a movement so boneless he appeared, in the stark early morning light, to be something not flesh but fluid—something primal and pure. His hair was shocking, blood-dark, against the creamy paleness of his throat and jaw. 

            A very beautiful creature, indeed. But if ever one were to peer into the vivid blue of his eyes, one would surely freeze—or burn,—caught unawares and utterly vulnerable by the unadulterated coldness and caustic heat residing there. Closed off as he was, Ruan still radiated a frigid emptiness so distinctly laced with his signature blend of fire and ice that no person in his or her right mind would consciously approach him without caution. His very being screamed danger, and cried out for intruders to be very, very wary. 

            Naturally, Ophelia and Bjorn just *loved* him. He was a younger, more beautiful version of Faolán, and thus elicited unconscious homage from them. With no effort at all Ruan had taken control of their minds, preventing them from becoming suspicious of his and Winn's origins. 

            And now, he knew, it was just about time for him and Winn to get ready for their first mission with Morteflame. He wasn't supposed to know this, of course, but he had simply plucked the information out of Bjorn's head and learned that their debut would take place in just two hours. 

            Shrugging on a fitted, very worn grey t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, Ruan stepped quietly out of the dormitory he shared with the other guys and strode at a quick but leisurely pace through the hall. Winn was not in her room, he knew. He sensed that she was at that little knoll again, the one she had discovered their first or second day at "the Hole." His lips curved in a tiny smile at the knowledge that she thought he didn't know about her little hiding place. 

            He strode through the surrounding forest, easily making no sound, and was soon climbing up the tiny, dew-stippled hill. There she was. Her back was turned to him as she faced the awe-inspiring view of the forests and Melas near completely swallowed by heavy mist and clouds. Stripped early on of all her old clothes, she wore a thick, grey wool sweater in place of the grey-green jacket, and thanks to her strange haircut, the back of her neck was pale, bared. 

            Stepping silently close, Ruan let his icy breath trail along the white flesh of her neck. He heard her suck in a sharp, ragged breath as she whirled around, dark eyes wide and flushed with alarm.

* * *    

            *SMACK.* 

            Flinching at the distinct sound of her hand colliding with Ruan's cheek, Winn automatically tried to jerk back, jump away. But she couldn't move—Ruan had gripped her wrist in one unyielding fist that felt like cold iron against her skin. 

            Immediately, both she and Ruan were plunged into a whirl of frenzied color, the soulmate link flaring up wildly after being repressed for weeks. In her panic and immediate desperation to get free, Winn inadvertently raised her eyes and met Ruan's burning gaze. If she didn't know better, she would say they seemed slightly *unnerved.*  She suppressed a bitter laugh. Nothing—in her experience—had ever truly unnerved Ruan and she doubted that she had broken his record. The familiar rush of hot anger that she unfailingly experienced whenever Ruan was near filled her chest, sending telepathic tendrils of molten fury directly into Ruan's brain. 

            Before she could say a thing, though, Ruan tightened his already bone-crushing grip on her wrist and jerked her closer to him. Meeting his blistering gaze, Winn felt all of the courage she might have had before suddenly shrink and shrivel and slink away. 

            He was very, very angry.

            Bending close so that his face was only inches from hers, Ruan said, in a voice inflected with the barest touch of harshness, "If you ever touch me like that again, I will kill you. Soulmate fucking principal or no, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

            A shudder wracked Winn's body. For a second all she could feel was an achingly deep sense of despair—she realized that short of dying, she would never truly be free of Ruan Ferrin, of this unfeeling, *empty* creature. *Why?* she wanted to scream at him, at his perfect face. 

            And then, moments later, she just felt drained. She was barren, and lost. Turning her gaze away from those piercing orbs, Winn just nodded wearily, barely able to keep herself from collapsing on the dew-covered grass in a comatose heap. 

            Ruan let go of her wrist, drawing his hand back as though from fire or holy water, and stepped away. Winn's knees trembled; she felt feverish, and each gentle gust of wind that trailed across her body felt like sharp knives digging deep into her highly sensitized flesh. 

            "We have our first assignment today," Ruan said quietly, his smooth, uninflected voice oddly piercing in the early morning quiet. Winn flicked an indifferent glance at Ruan, and wasn't surprised to find him staring at the city of Melas with his face unconcerned and cold once again. "We'll be summoned in an hour."

            "Seven o'clock, then?"

            He didn't answer, instead turning away from the view of the city and starting down the hill. Unsurprised, Winn shot one last, longing glance at the fog-engulfed city, wrapped her arms around herself, and trudged down after him.

* * *

            Promptly at seven o'clock Willem came for them, and then led them down several longish corridors until they had reached a white-walled, utterly sterile changing room flanked on each end by rows of brushed-steel lockers.

            "552 is yours, Winn, and 553 is Ruan's," Willem announced brusquely, and handed them each a slip of paper with their combinations. "You will find your assignment materials there. I will be back in ten minutes." With that, Willem turned on his heel and left the room. Winn squinted at him…he looked so dark against the brilliance of fluorescent lights… But Ruan was already striding toward his locker, rousing Winn from her odd reverie. 

            25…15…5—there. The locker door swung open, revealing its unusual contents. On the top shelf lay a pile of neatly folded matte-black clothing; the middle shelf held two small knives and a standard automatic, as well as a holster and sheaths; a pair of steel-toed boots sat on the bottom shelf. Assassin wear, huh? Winn thought, biting back a reckless laugh. 

            When Willem returned, they were already dressed—entirely in black. Winn wore a narrow, fitted jacket that fell to her hips, and a pair of tailored trousers; though all of the clothing was strangely easy to move in, she still felt uncomfortable in such—form-fitting—garments. She noted with envy that Ruan, though dressed similarly, appeared completely comfortable and utterly elegant.  

             Willem surveyed them covertly. "Ruan and Winnen. You will be taking care of two shapeshifters—one a lynx, the other a hawk. Do you understand?"

            Winn nodded, while Ruan just stared back at Willem's slightly down-tilted face. Willem beckoned to both, saying, "Come. I will give you your instructions." They walked up to him, faintly perplexed. "Morteflame details its assignments through telepathy. In this way we can avoid unfortunate lapses of memory, reason, judgment, et cetera." With a sudden movement, Willem touched two fingers to Winn and Ruan's foreheads; Winn could feel her mind being invaded by brand-new, distinctly alien knowledge. A moment later, she knew exactly who it was they were assigned to "take care of", and she knew their expected procedure exactly, as though she had come up with it herself.

            And she knew Ruan was just as sure in his mind about all this as she was. 

            Not surprisingly, though, Willem had neglected to imbue her with knowledge of *why* there was a hit on these two shifties. Not my *place*, I suppose, she thought with an ironic smile threatening to twist her mouth.

            Willem drew his hands away with a movement just as silent and sudden as the first, and though his head was, as usual, tilted downwards, Winn thought she saw a tiny, complacent smile curve his lips. "I will take you to your designated vehicle, now. Follow me," he stated, and led them out of the white room, through a few halls, and outside through a back door. He gestured toward the smallish, nondescript sedan sitting before them. "There you are. You have all you need for your first assignment, Ruan and Winnen. Have…fun." With that, the strange young man turned on his heel and strode away.

            Some moments later, Winn sat stiffly, nervously in the passenger's seat, while Ruan drove them away from the Hole. Glancing warily over, she furtively studied Ruan's profile; granted, it was every bit as perfect as the rest of him, but strangely, the sharp dip of cheekbone, the line of jaw and throat, the curve of his ear all gave his face a delicacy she would never have thought he could possess. 

            "See anything interesting, Winnen-little?"

            Winn jerked, startled. Mouth suddenly dry, and a flush staining her cheeks, Winn leaned away from the boy next to her and mumbled, "Interesting isn't the word for it, I don't think."

            A tiny smile curved that perfect mouth. "Are you nervous, partridge?"

            "No, Ruan Ferrin," she replied.

            "I think you're lying, partridge. I can *feel* it through our…connection," Ruan murmured. 

Winn felt her cheeks flush with anger; a rush of heat coursed through her body, and she muttered, "And our 'connection' is a fucking joke."

Did Ruan's eyes widen, ever so slightly? "Indeed it is. But you're still nervous, partridge, and the connection doesn't lie." 

Winn didn't answer, choosing instead to rest her cheek on the icy window and wait for them to arrive at their destination. 

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, then the car finally pulled to a stop, and Winn sat up in her seat, a fine trembling taking over her body. They were there. Or, they were a block away from their destination, 1533 East Sherling Drive, city of Brierley, where the two shifties were lingering, unsuspecting, vulnerable, dead and walking. 

Ruan had parked a block or so down the street behind an empty, soon-to-be-demolished apartment building. Needless to say, the neighborhood was not a particularly nice one; the tenement buildings were old and run-down, and the sidewalks were lined with litter and indigents.

Winn knew her part, and strangely, she felt confident. At the same time, though, she felt sick at that same confidence—she hated what she perceived to be her heartlessness. 

She and Ruan were to make a fast, clean job of it; Willem had emphasized the need for stealth and efficiency. Without glancing at Ruan for confirmation, Winn opened the door and stepped out into the alley. Out of habit scanning her surroundings, she stepped around the sedan and began walking down the alley toward the building a block away. According to Willem's very explicit instructions, she and Ruan would not be working together, exactly. While she would take care of the man, the hawk shapeshifter,—Willem had subtly but clearly implied that he was the weaker of the two—Ruan would deal with the woman, both maintaining telepathic contact with each other throughout the operation. Thanks to an image Willem had imparted to her, she even knew what this man looked like: he was five or six years older than her, thin, and of medium height with short, dirty-blond hair. The guy looked completely normal and unassuming—someone she might see on the street. 

Peering around the edge of the building, Winn felt no less confident of *how* she was to complete her assignment, but at the same time, she felt increasingly disconcerted at her final objective. I'm a murderer, she thought, biting back a choked laugh. Not good, not good. She knew what she was supposed to do, but she could feel the hysteria begin to bubble up inside of her. Sucking in a deep breath, she began walking rapidly through the alley to 1533 East Sherling. 

Moments later, she stood just around the corner from the building's back door. Handgun first, she thought, face blanched completely white. Her hands shook as she reached into her jacket and pulled out the weapon. Willem said to use the gun first…silver bullets…put the silencer on, he said. Be fast, he said. Holding the cold piece of metal tightly against her chest, Winn finally reached out with her mind to connect with Ruan's. 

~~Ruan Ferrin.~~ The soulmate link burst open, disconcerting Winn even further. Shit. Before he responded, Winn could feel Ruan's mind meshing so disturbingly with her own. It was odd…the link felt almost…stronger, this time…

~~Winnen-little. On location behind the building, I assume.~~ He sounded…he didn't sound like anything. His voice was so perfectly empty—so devoid of feeling. He was—off.

Winn narrowed her eyes. ~~Yes. I'm opening the door.~~

He didn't answer.

The door swung open easily. As she crept up the dark, iron staircase, her eyes feverishly searched her environment, all of her nerves wound tight and wary. All right, she thought nervously. Almost there… She was now slinking as quietly as possible down a wide, empty corridor on the fourth floor, looking for room number 431. Her breathing was loud, piercing the eerie stillness of the hallway. 429…430…431—*there*.    

For a moment she just stared at the tarnished metal numbers tacked onto the noticeably worn door. Her legs refused to move and her arms hung, heavy as lead, by her sides, the handgun dangling from her fingers. Four. Thirty. One. Four…No. With a slight shake of her head, Winn aimed the gun at the lock, and without further adieu pulled the trigger. 

The bullet left the barrel of the gun with a stifled buzz and ripped the lock apart with a sharp, popping sound. Taking a sharp breath and holding it, she pushed the door open and slipped in, eyes wide and searching. Okay…there's the kitchen…living room…Wait. Stepping into the living room, she ignored the clothes strewn across the floor, but noticed with interest that the far corner of the room was packed with humming laptops and PCs, wires, disks, software and hardware. So this guy is what, some kind of hacker? And hackers are dangerous because…they can break into databases…does the Marquéd have a database then? Must…

Her thoughts came to an abrupt stop. Because there, just a few feet away, her target was lying, sprawled, on the scruffy couch. That's him, then, she thought, fingers tightening on the gun in her hands. 

The man—she didn't even know his name—looked exhausted; his dirty blonde hair was unkempt, his clothes rumpled, and his chin covered in several days' worth of stubble. 

~~Shoot him now, partridge.~~

Winn almost jumped at Ruan's sudden intrusion into her thoughts. ~~I will—I'm going to, right now,~~ she replied sharply, feeling Ruan retreat back to whatever it was he was doing. 

Leaning slightly away from the man lying on the sofa, she forced her elbows to unlock, and slowly leveled the gun at his forehead. Fast, Willem said. Fast and clean and quiet as a cat. Just shoot him, Winn, she told herself harshly. Just do it. Do it! Fucking do it, *now*. Her fingers, so cold and tight, tensed against the trigger—

And his eyes snapped open. "What the fuck?" she heard him mutter, as though from a great distance. "Shit!" 

She was frozen, and she knew she must be gaping. With a movement fluid and swift, he wrenched the gun out of her hands, snapping her out of her trance. Suddenly springing into motion, she jerked away, feeling his fist glance off her cheekbone with a painful *crack*. "Dammit," she mumbled, backing clumsily away. As she pawed through her jacket, searching for something to defend herself with, her back hit a wall, her head thumping painfully against it.  She looked up at the target, and realized that he was now pointing the gun at her; didn't he know what she was? That silver bullets would not kill her? 

The knives! "Winn, you are a stupid, stupid, stupid girl," she mumbled under her breath, snatching at the two smallish knives at her hips.

Hawk-man's grey eyes widened triumphantly as he advanced on her. "Winn? Is that your name, then, Winn?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, speaking rapidly, "Who's behind all this, Winn? You must know. You know! Who was it? Who paid for—for *you*?" he spat, only a few feet away. "Did they tell you what they're really doing, Winn? Huh? Did they? Do you know who *they* is? Do you? Do you have any fucking clue what they do to people like me? People who don't follow their fucking rules—their goddamn *laws*? Wait—of course you do. You know *exactly* what they do, don't you, Winn?" He had stopped advancing on her, seeming intent on studying her, taking in her odd haircut, her mouth, which was set in a straight, expressionless line. 

"You won't answer me, then? You know, Winn, you don't seem very experienced at this sort of thing. No, you seem a bit…edgy…" The man's tone had become reflective, as though he was puzzling something out. "…Why send someone so inexperienced, then? To kill…Oh, shit. Shit! Where's the other one, Winn?" he snarled, suddenly very close.

That's it, hawk-boy, just a little closer… Her fingers closed around the hilts of her knives, and she edged them out bit by bit. 

"Where's your partner?" he barked. His eyes widened. "Your partner…Oh my god, Deirdre! Shit!" His eyes narrowed, and his arms came up, quivering only slightly, aiming the gun at her forehead, fingers tensing on the trigger. With a movement so natural and so rapid she could hardly believe it was hers, Winn pulled the knives from her sheathes, and sprang away from the wall, slashing with her knives at the same time, hoping to at least make him back away. 

It worked. The man leapt backwards and into the couch, tumbling over the side and onto the floor. Astonishingly, he had managed not to inadvertently pull the trigger; instead, upon colliding with the floor, the gun was wrenched out of his grasp to slide across the tile, just a few feet away from Winn. For a second, their gazes met, his filled with sudden fear, and hers with…nothing. At that moment, Winn felt no pang of shock, or guilt, or confusion—all she felt was a cold, logical desire to retrieve the gun and finish her job. 

Without a word, she ripped her gaze away from him and darted over to the gun. Bringing her arms up with a sharp jerk, she crept toward the figure lying on the ground, and aimed the gun at his forehead. Her face and mind was still blank as her fingers tightened on the trigger; she took a step forward…

"Get it over with. Just—do it," the man muttered, still staring straight at her with eyes filled with fear, and resignation. "Do it!"

Winn was seized with an overwhelming sense of unease. Glancing at her hands wrapped so tightly around the gun, she noticed that she was shaking—not trembling, either; she was *shaking*. "Why?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

The man's eyes widened; he seemed surprised. Shaking his head slowly from side to side, he murmured, "Because I'm dead already. Without Deirdre…I'm finished."

"Who's Deirdre?" Winn asked softly, though she had already deduced that Deirdre must have been the woman Ruan was assigned to deal with. 

"She's—wait…no. I won't tell you a fucking thing—I won't!" he cried, eyes locked on the barrel of the gun trained on him. He smiled fiercely. "You don't have a clue, do you, *Winn*? Not a goddamn clue…" Letting out a short bark of laughter, he went on, "Do you even know why you're here? Why you were sent? You don't. You're just some stupid drone following orders." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me tell you why you're here, then, Winn. You and whoever you're with were sent to kill Deirdre and me because we don't follow *their* rules—and I know you know who *they* are. The Marquéd, right? You don't have any idea what they're like! Let me tell you why they sent you. You must have noticed my humble set-up in the corner, there. The Marquéd have a database—highly classified, of course—that no outsider has ever gotten into…except for Deirdre and me. We did it and we saw—" the man's eyes looked almost haunted for a second "—we saw things no outsider was ever meant to see. We know what they do. We know... But we're dead, anyway, so I won't bore you with the details. So that's it, Winn. That's why you're here." His mouth tightened. "Now finish it."

Shivering, Winn felt as though an immense hole was unfolding inside of her. The Marquéd…she knew it wasn't what it seemed. That *Lif* was much, much more than what he appeared to be. But that there were *things*, as the shapeshifter said, the Marquéd was doing…or planning—that was a whole different world. A very frightening world. And Winn couldn't help but wonder what was really going on…what the Marquéd was planning…

 She couldn't do this. She couldn't kill someone in cold blood—

~~What are you doing, Winn?~~ 

Ruan's sudden intrusion into her thoughts almost made her jump. His voice was still just as closed-off and cold as it had been earlier. She sensed with a growing feeling of revulsion that he had already completed his assignment. Deirdre, whoever she was, was most definitely dead. 

And he was closer now, and drawing nearer. 

~~You haven't finished him. Do it, Winn. Now.~~

"Just do it, Winn," the shapeshifter muttered again. "Do it."

~~Now, Winn. Finish it. Or I'll do it for you.~~

"Shoot me, already! Pull the fucking trigger!"

Winn sensed that Ruan was now running down the stairs from the eighth floor. No. I won't do this—I can't. She whipped her gaze back to the near-desperate man on the floor and said loudly, "No." Ruan was very near now. She bent down to him and pushed the gun into his hands. "Get out," she muttered, feeling nauseous. "Go! Get off the floor and get out. Now!" Confusion written all over his face, the shapeshifter pushed himself off the ground and lurched toward the fire escape. 

Ruan was down the hall now…twenty feet away…ten… Face gone completely white, Winn cried out, "Run!" The shapeshifter began running toward the escape and was almost there…

Hearing the front door bang against the wall, Winn whirled around just in time to see a tall, dark blur rush across the living room towards the shapeshifter—she saw a flash of bright silver—she heard the whir of metal slashing through the air—

And then everything was silent. Except for the achingly slow sound of something sliding down the wall. 

Something…something…the shapeshifter…was…was... Winn shook her head, not quite comprehending, and mumbled, "No."

"Yes."

At the painfully cold sound of Ruan's voice, she raised her head and stared at the sight before her: Ruan stood, tall, slim and elegant in black, with a long, red-streaked knife in each hand, over a prone body—the shapeshifter. The body's chest was cleaved virtually open by two diagonal slashes perpendicular to each other. A pool of dark blood was forming rapidly under the body. 

She noticed vaguely that Ruan was walking slowly, almost warily towards her, letting the two knives fall from his hands. 

Ruan stood directly before her, less than a foot away. With a gesture graceful but detached, he cupped her face in his hands, bringing the soulmate link violently to life. Yes, the contact was undeniably more intense now. 

His eyes were so blue…and so devoid of human emotion. He was like some Greek god carved out of ice—wonderfully beautiful, but ultimately inhuman. His fingers tightened on her jaw and throat, digging into the skin, and her skin flamed, burning like fire, at every point of contact. 

Despite her presently muddled state, one thing lay clear and bright in her mind: Ruan's touch hurt, and was unwelcome. Any touch of his was unwelcome, and every touch of his hurt. 

Her body tensed as she prepared to jerk out of his vice-like grip, but before she could even move, he sent one deafening, caustic thought deep into her mind:

~~Sleep now, Winnen-little. Sleep and be dead to the world.~~

I don't know his name…the shapeshifter…I never even learned his name, she thought before tumbling into thick, liquid night.

* * *

            The clouds still hung heavy and dark as Ruan pulled up to the back door at the Hole two hours later. He glanced over at the passenger seat, where Winn still slumped, unconscious, against the door. 

            Letting his mind go blank, he brushed over her thoughts and once again received the sensation that she was deeply troubled about something, aside from the usual anxiety that seemed to constantly plague the deeper recesses of her mind. 

            She was such an anxious little thing… Nothing at all like Myr. Myr was always so strong, so manipulative, so completely self-assured. So powerful. But Winn, she was different story altogether, constantly nervous, perpetually uneasy and restless, always so fearful of what the future might bring.

            And that was what he got. A depressed, neurotic bundle of nerves. 

            He reached out a hand and touched the tip of his forefinger to her temple, feeling the electricity erupt with an intensity that made him feel almost…apprehensive. 

            He was beginning to understand that his plans for Winnen Fallou would be more difficult to realize than he had previously thought. Even just barely skimming her thoughts, he could see and feel traces of her potential for power…a power that might someday eclipse his own. 

            However anxiety-ridden she was, Winnen Fallou was different, and as much as he would have liked to deny it, she was a threat. 

            A threat, however, that he would have to live with, unless he preferred madness over lucidity. But living with a threat didn't necessarily mean he had to be afraid of it…no…this was a threat he would have to blunt and blur until it was void and no longer a danger to him and his plans.

            Ruan drew his hand away, welcoming the sudden relief from that electric pulse, and leaned down toward her. Voice dry and distant as usual, he said loudly, "Get up, Winn." He grasped her upper arm tightly and jerked her upright. "Get up. Now."

            Her arm felt so frail in his grip…as though she were still vermin… He gave her arm another sharp tug.

            With a shudder, Winn woke up, her ink-dark eyes at once violet-shadowed and alert and filled with a confusing mixture of hot anger, growing coldness, and something too tangled for him to recognize. Her gaze darted around the car for a moment before settling on his face, her face filled with revulsion. 

            "You killed him," she mumbled, flattening herself against the car door. 

            A rush of anger filled his chest—it was strange…uncharacteristic for him. He had almost always had perfect control over his emotions. Eyes flashing with electricity, he looked away from the sharp little face a few feet away; he turned back a moment later, though, his face once again expressionless except for a hint of contempt. "Yes, I did kill him, because that is what we do now. Think back, Winnen. The sooner we gain the insurgents' trust, the sooner we get back to the Marquéd—" He had been about to say that the sooner they got back to the Marquéd the sooner he could deal with Lif and move on with his plans, but then realized who he was talking to. He doubted Winn would approve of them, on account of what he was planning for her, and he couldn't have her undermining them. After a moment's pause, he continued, "Learn now, partridge, that we are going to kill every person we have to in order to accomplish our objective. He and his soulmate are dead. Forget about them."

            Blanching, Winn gave her head a small shake, closing her eyes for a moment. She looked nauseous. "Deirdre…was his soulmate…" She sounded as though she were talking to herself, trying to absorb and deny at the same time whatever it was she was thinking about. 

            Ruan's eyes narrowed fractionally, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. She hadn't known…

            "He said...he was finished…that was what he meant—" She sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly bit down hard on her bottom lip; her fingers clenching even more tightly around each other. 

            As though she had reached a sudden, revelatory conclusion, she met his gaze again, burning holes into his skull, and said loudly and with utter conviction, "You are a monster."

            Ruan stared, intrigued, at the ruby-colored drops of blood welling up in the self-inflicted cuts on her bottom lip. They glistened alluringly, beads of crimson wine, in the dim, grayish light filtering through the heavy clouds. Only vaguely aware of what he was saying, he murmured, "Monsters are relative, partridge. The world hates what it does not, cannot, and refuses to comprehend—but are these things true monsters?"

            "By any definition, Ruan Ferrin, you are monstrous. You kill without passion, you live but are dead inside—" 

            "Dead inside?" Ruan interrupted, eyes still glued to her scarlet-slick lip. "Do you remember what you told me, Winnen, about lacking…compassion? I think you were right about that. But I am still very much alive." He found himself leaning closer to her, causing her to press even harder against the car door. "Very alive…"

            Reaching out with a hand, he very lightly brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, smearing the blood across her mouth, along the curve of her cheek, until his hand reached the corner of her eye. 

            He noticed that Winn had suddenly tensed up; she was blinking rapidly, her breath coming fast and thin.

Her body seemed to wind up even tighter, and go still for a moment—realizing that she was about to shove him or jerk away, Ruan closed the remaining inches between them with a movement too swift for Winn to intercept, and pressed his mouth to hers.

He tasted blood; he felt the friction caused by the dryness of both their lips; he smelled the mingled scents of Chapstick and pure, unadulterated panic. Her panic.

Caught up in the whirlwind of raw sensation, of roughness and drying blood, Ruan was only vaguely aware of Winn fumbling clumsily with the car door; his fingers dug deeper into the skin of her jaw and cheekbone. 

All he could think of was the blood and the power and the fear…something had broken inside of him. 

Then, suddenly, the car door swung open, and Winn wrenched her mouth away and scrambled out of the car. Snapping back to reality, Ruan touched a hand to his mouth, noticing that the tips of his fingers were splotched with red, and was filled with a surge of disgust.

Watching Winn clamber up from the pavement, his eyes, face, and chest empty and cold once again, Ruan slowly slid back into his seat. 

The plans would soon begin.

* * *

Thanks a two-thousand-pound-unit-of-measurement, my loves, and please, please, please drop me a line! I love feedback…'deed I do. Happy fortune cookies to all who review, then!

Much love and all things spicy, 

Mogget ::happy smile:: 


	13. Chapter 13

Tamashii: First off, thank you so much for reviewing! Secondly, glad that you're enjoying the story. And thirdly, I found your comments to be very insightful—your review made me rethink Ruan's development as a character. I'd hate for him to stagnate. We'll see how he turns out…! 

apsara: ::Is sheepish at disgustingly late update:: Sorry 'bout that. Most tremendously delighted to hear that you're enjoying the story and especially the "sick and twisted" bits…I believe the "resistance" faction against Morteflame will be explained more in Chapter 14, which I hope to get up soon. Thank you tons for reviewing…!

brigit: Hallo! Well, Winn didn't do the disappearing trick because at the moment she wasn't thinking about anyplace other than where she was (which was pressed up against the car door) and getting away. Had she concentrated on a specific place, she could have gotten away that way. About the soulmate thing—um, I believe one or a couple of the books mention something about the soulmate link being too intense for some, causing them to separate, but I don't know whether separation causes insanity in the novels. I think fanfic writers have interpreted the link to be a binding so powerful that breaking the it inevitably causes some kind of discord in the living constituent. Anyway, thank you so much for reviewing!

S.L.: How do? Glad you're liking the story, and I plan to get the next part up soon. Thanks for reviewing!

Dulce Ambrosia: Oh! And the Winn-Ruan relationship is going to get even *twistier* (as well as all of the others)! Thanks so much for reviewing, and read on…

debra: Hullo! I am most delighted that you're enjoying the story, 'deed I am. Look for the next part soon… Muchisimas gracias for the review!

Sharmeen: Sorry you're confused! I hope things will get a bit clearer in the next couple of parts. I think the whole story will be about twenty or so parts, so there are about seven more chapters to go. Interesting that you think Ruan is nice…I wouldn't personally call him nice, exactly, although I think he may have some capacity—albeit very limited—to be pleasant. Hmm. We'll see! Thanks for reviewing!

Chapter 13: Marquéd

            Lif watched the members of the Marquéd gradually trickle out of the low-ceilinged meeting lounge and return to the world above. Carefully concealing a sneer, he contemplated his disciples: they were beautiful, certainly, and also vapid, ruthless and outrageously petty.

            Gods, he could hardly stand them. For all their posturing, and for all their supposed power, they really never did anything significant. They were just a name—a silly, pretentious name.

            Which was just how he wanted it—how he had planned it from the very beginning. As elitist as the Marquéd were and had been for the past eighty years, they could never be elite. How depressing. And how delightfully perfect. His plans had already begun to smoothly take form—indeed, Ruan and the girl were exactly where he wanted them.

            Lif chuckled out loud. "Poor Ruan," he murmured to the now-empty room. "Thought you had it all worked out, didn't you?" Thought you had me fooled. 

            Yes, Lif knew all about Ruan. That Ruan was already contemplating subversion against the Marquéd's leader came as no surprise. Disappointing, of course, but entirely predictable. It was bound to happen—that was something Lif had foreseen from the very moment he had met Ruan. 

            Ah, but if only Ruan hadn't been so…stubborn. So pigheaded. So godsdamned independent. The possibilities! He and Lif could have taken complete control of the Councils in both hemispheres—they could have the entire Nightworld in the palms of their hands. But no use mourning the inevitable, Lif thought, a sudden smile gracing his youthful features. He would simply have to work with what he still had: Morteflame, the Council (western, at least), and, of course, himself.

            That girl. Winnen…Fallou. His eyes flashed, a thoughtful expression seizing his features, as he recalled the strange little runt he had scooped up off the streets just a month or so ago. Strange indeed. What possessed him to coerce her into the Marquéd was a mystery even to him…but there was something—*something* about her, either in those haunted eyes or in that oddly inaccessible brain that drove him to add her to his collection of beauties, despite her shortcomings in that arena. He had a feeling that she would be useful, mayhap even important, in the future…he would have to set about prying her away from Ruan.      

            Damn him. Chuckling, Lif glanced down at his hands, studying the long, graceful fingers, the pure, unbroken skin. In his mind's eye he imagined them wrapped around a long, white throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, feeling the panicked thrum of a racing heartbeat, staring into eyes so blue and cold they burned, laughing triumphantly. 

* * *    

            The room was softly lit, luminous and glowing and warm. Mara shivered, perched on the edge of a hard sofa, folded her arms across her chest, and peered through the dusky glow to the tall, magnificent man standing before his desk, his hair shockingly, brilliantly white. Beautiful boy, that, she thought, a trace of a smile lingering on her lips. But for all the lazy warmth surrounding him, the man soaked none of it in; he was like some stately pillar of ice-cold marble, pale and rigid. 

            Lips parting in a quiet smile, jasper-colored eyes glinting with resignation, Mara said, "Why, Faolán. It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

            Faolán didn't smile back. "It has, indeed, Mara Paskov."

            The smile faded, and Mara sighed. "Typical, aren't we? You haven't changed, dear, I'll give you that. But no matter. Let us cut to the chase, eh?" 

            Faolán raised an elegant, snow-white eyebrow. "Anxious?"

            "To be rid of you, dear puppy? Of course. Now, Faolán, what is it you want from me?"

            Faolán crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk. "I wish to know more about someone. A new recruit, actually."

            The yellow eyes flashed curiously. "Name?"

            "Winnen Fallou."

            Mara's eyes flashed a brilliant gold. "Fallou. So we are speaking of a woman, then. Unusual for you, Faolán. Tell me, are you disturbed by this…Winnen?" Disturbed as much as you once were by me?

            "Disturbed…no. Not precisely. I am, however, curious."

            "Curious, he says. Curious!" Mara trilled, twittering. "Oh, Faolán. It seems this girl is something special, then. But if she interests *you*, dear puppy, I'm not entirely sure that it's a good thing."

            "I am not in the mood for your games, Paskov," Faolán returned, ice-green eyes filled with a dangerous light. "This girl has power. That much was easy enough to deduce just through observation. However, it is also clear to me that she has not tapped into it, perhaps because she is ignorant of her potential, perhaps because she is being controlled by some outside influence."

            "I see. And you think it is a bit of both, eh?"

            "You know me too well."

            "Never well enough, love, never well enough. I've known that since you first got me out of that…place." Eyes clouded by memories, Mara gave her head a quick shake, and continued, "So. I ask again: what do you want from *me*?"

            "Get to know the girl. The more I know about her, the more useful she'll be to Morteflame."

            "To Morteflame, or to *you*, puppy?" Mara queried softly, playfully.

            "To Morteflame, Paskov. Always to Morteflame." He paused, staring at nothing in particular, almost trance-like. "Talk to her, make friends with her, become a mentor to her. I want to know everything I can of her. But do it outside of Morteflame, Mara. You know our arrangement."

            " 'I know naught of thee, and thee knows naught of me.' As it is and always has been. Of course, Faolán. How do you wish me to contact you?"

            "Not mentally…Mara, I fear that Morteflame and, by default, the Marquéd, have made some dangerous enemies. Yes, I realize that having enemies is nothing new to us, but this feels different."

"How so, pet?" Mara asked, fingers tense and clasped hard upon each other.

"I cannot sense them. I do not know who it is I should treat with caution. All I have to rely on is this godsdamned *feeling* that someone or something is waiting. And listening." 

"Not mentally, then."

"No, not mentally. I will arrange for someone I can trust to run messages from you to me every other day."

"Willem?"

"As expected," Faolán replied, smiling faintly. "He is, after all, the only person I can thoroughly trust, here at Headquarters."

"Aside from me, you mean?" Mara teased, a mischievous twinkle in her bright, amber-lit eyes.

Faolán made no reply, and instead smiled enigmatically at the old woman perched, bird-like, on his sofa. 

"Very well, then, dear pup," Mara chuckled. "I will expect Willem in a few days' time…you know where to send him."

"Of course. For the time being, then, farewell, Mara Paskov."

"Farewell. Oh, and Faolán?"

"Yes?"

"Do be wary around that girl—that Winnen. She may be more than any of us have yet imagined."

* * * 

            "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…" Winn muttered, features pinched and tense. But this anger was not hot—it was not a blushing, glowing fury. No, this anger was far more intense and far more dangerous because, contrary to Winn's usual character, it was cold, calculated, detached. This anger, this *rage*, was buried deep inside her bones, rooted in the very center of her being. 

            This time, Ruan had gone too far. He had invaded her space and humiliated her sense of self-worth more thoroughly than he ever had before. Sure, it was just a kiss,—albeit an entirely unexpected and disgustingly twisted one—but coming from Ruan, the whole meaning of the word and deed changed.  

            Standing alone in the center of the girls' huge, empty chamber, Winn forced her facial features to relax and arrange themselves into a mask of calmness and composure. A "kiss" to him is no symbol of affection, of tenderness…or of love, Winn thought, fighting the urge to hit something. He's too fucked up. And he fucks up everything—*everyone*—he touches.  He turned it in to one of his *games*…one of his fucking games of control…He turned it into *oppression.* 

            Yes, this time had been different. Some intangible line had been crossed, some unspoken agreement broken…you don't touch me…I don't touch you… 

            Well, that's that, Winn thought, and smiled. You don't want to play by the rules anymore, Ruan Ferrin? Neither will I. 

            A moment later, the near-manic smile disappeared completely, leaving the sharp-featured face tense and hard. Winn exhaled shakily, her hands jerking of their own volition. Her eyes filled with a shocking warmness, her cheeks flushed, and she gasped for breath—she felt as though she would explode—! 

              "Oh, God," she muttered, trying to keep from retching. "Oh, fuck. Fuck. How did I get into this?" The hot liquid—so completely *different* from the coldness that was slowly freezing her insides—threatened to spill from her eyes. Staring at the hardwood floor, Winn took a deep, shuddering breath… Breathe in…breathe out…breathe in….out…there. There. 

            The floor came back into focus; it was no longer a featureless blur. Her eyes were dry. All dry. 

            "Well, then, Winn. No more rules?" she whispered to herself. "Then what are you going to do? What are you going to *fucking* do now?" She paused, her gaze still fixed on the polished oak of the floor. Then, in an even softer whisper, a murmur so faint it was almost without sound, she answered, "I will make him doubt. I will make him afraid. And," she murmured, lifting her eyes to the ceiling so high above, "I will make him *hurt*." 

* * *

            He felt slightly nauseous. Which was odd, given his usual, thoroughly numb state, but the sensation was undeniably there. 

            "Hey, Ruan, man, I gotta get in there…"

            Ruan opened his eyes and glanced up at the slight, dark-haired figure hovering before him. Edmund. The young-looking boy seemed a bit nervous, Ruan noted with a vague twinge of satisfaction. 

            He smiled sharply and pushed away from the bathroom door, where he had been leaning for the past ten or so minutes after parking the car, and began walking down the hall, toward the foyer. He could feel Edmund's uneasy gaze on his shoulders. 

             A moment later, Ruan stepped onto marble tile, and stopped, stomach clenching violently: there, standing in the center of the grand, dome-ceilinged entrance hall, was Winn. 

She hadn't noticed him yet—her back was to him, and she seemed to be studying something on the opposite end of the room. Brows drawn involuntarily together, Ruan was distinctly aware of feeling uncharacteristically awkward for some reason he couldn't quite pin down, but was certain had to do with the coal-haired creature standing twenty feet away. 

Hidden away in his coat pockets, his fingers tensed, clenching. This was a dangerous feeling, this uneasiness. So foreign, so *weak*…and yet, at the same time, so familiar…as though he were recalling some long-forgotten emotion from his pre-Myr days. 

He frowned. This was ridiculous. Swallowing because his mouth had suddenly gone dry, he shoved the tumultuous, bubbling sensations away from him, away from his consciousness until they were nothing more than an unpleasant dream simmering deep beneath the surface. 

Brushing a few strands of blood-colored hair out of his eyes, Ruan forced himself to relax; his face was smooth and cool as he prepared to step out onto the slick marble that covered the floor, and approach Winn. He took a step, fists concealed in the pockets of his coat, lips parted and poised to make some snide comment—

"Hello, Ruan," Winn greeted, not even turning around, her voice low but clear. Strange. A subtle but portentous sharpness underlying the words made him pause for an instant before approaching her. 

            Without allowing the surprise to show on his face, he stepped up beside her at the same time she turned to face him, her big, sable eyes fully meeting his gaze. He could feel his skin prickle with an involuntary rush of anticipation. Narrowing his eyes, he replied in a soft, smooth voice, "You must be learning, partridge. It seems I can no longer surprise you, don't you think?" 

            She stared steadily back at him, her dark eyes wide and glinting with an unnatural—at least for her—light. She shrugged, indifferent. "We all learn sometime, don't we? And at any rate, I was getting a bit tired of your…surprises, Ruan Ferrin. I think you'll agree that they were never very nice."

            " 'Nice' is a dead word, partridge—"

            Her head snapped up. "Don't call me that," she interrupted, resentment flickering in her eyes, across her face.

            A spark of amusement lanced through him, though both his face and voice were carefully blank. "I will call you whatever I please, and you will not stop me because you are incapable of doing so," he returned in the cold, flat voice he was so adept at using. 

            "Do you think so, Ruan Ferrin?" 

            "I know so. And unless you intend, in complete seriousness, to challenge me in this, I suggest that we do not speak of it again. Partridge." 

Less than a foot of electricity-charged space separated them and a part of Ruan almost wanted Winn to defy him, to level mind, body, and soulmate link against him, to attack him. A part of him was excited, and trembling in anticipation of conflict. 

Winn made no move. Then the moment was past, and Ruan was left staring down at the changeling-girl who just gazed back up at him with a tiny, self-satisfied smile curving her mouth. As though he had reacted in just the way she had expected him to…or wanted him to. 

Yes, this was without a doubt different. He could feel the strangeness radiating from her through the link—she had changed somehow, shifted into a skin that was foreign to him, a mystery. A mystery he found unsettling, to say the least, but also intriguing.

Winn glanced down, and inclined her head, to all outward appearances submissive and subordinate to the tall, flame-haired young man before her. Ruan stared down at the top of her head, finding himself fascinated by the smokiness of her untamed, closely-cropped curls; his fingers itched to touch her hair. For a second, his mind went blank, and though he was aware of his hand coming up between them, it was only from a great, cloudy distance, as though he were standing outside of his body and observing the exploits his physical self. The air crackled with electricity, there was a buzz in his ears that was steadily growing from an almost imperceptible hum into a mind-numbing roar, and it seemed that the outside world had melted away, leaving Ruan lost in an endless, grey expanse. He was deaf and blind, and alone but for Winn, who, standing less than a foot away, had finally looked up and was now staring intently up at him, as though she were waiting for something to happen—or maybe for him to make something happen. 

Neither moved, nor uttered a word, both waiting for something—anything—

"Um…Hello?" 

At the sound of the cautious, familiar, female voice, the tension between Winn and Ruan suddenly drained away, snapping them back to reality. Winn blinked, breaking the burning stare strung between them, and without stepping away, Ruan turned his narrowed gaze on the intruder. 

Shelley, he thought, watching her flinch, wondering what she saw in him that made her so afraid, so wary. 

"Was there something you needed, Shelley?" Winn called, an impatient lilt to her voice. As though she had been disappointed…as though it—whatever "it" was—hadn't gone quite as she had hoped. 

Running a hand through her shock of bright blue hair, Shelley blushed, embarrassed, obviously sensing that she had interrupted something. "Oh…no. Not really. I mean, you know, *I* didn't need anything, but, um—You see, Ó Ceallaigh wanted to talk to you." A tiny grimace pinched her features, as though the name left a foul taste in her mouth.

"Me?" Winn asked, surprised.

"Yeah…I don't know why or anything…Um, she's in Faolán's office, so…" Shelley trailed off, shrugging, two spots of color still lingering in her cheeks. With a short wave, she turned on her heel and hurried away, glancing back only once to scrutinize Ruan, a distinctly anxious expression on her face, before slinking off. 

Face impassive, Ruan watched her until she turned a corner far down the hall. Strange, he thought. Something wasn't quite right—that much he could already sense. Something was decidedly…off.

The soft rustle of clothing coming from just inches away abruptly yanked him out of his thoughts, bringing his attention back to Winn, who, like him, had not bothered to move away. She was staring up at him again, with an intent look in her eyes that set him on edge; she was, he realized, studying him as though she would a particularly interesting insect, and it made the flesh of his arms prick up in goose bumps. 

His lips curved in a half-smile and, noting with amusement the flinch that suddenly pinched her features, met her gaze with one of equal intensity. "Did you…want…something, Fallou?" he asked in a low, palpably sardonic voice. 

Her gaze flickered, and her cheeks flushed, but without looking away, she answered sharply, "Certainly. I would be most grateful if you would get out of my face, Ferrin."

His smile grew wider. "Is that all you want, partridge?" 

For a second, blatant dislike showed on her face and she looked as though she would snap a retort, or, perhaps, hit him. Hawk-eyed, Ruan observed the play of emotions on her face—righteous anger clashing with an urge to control herself, each battling for precedence over the other.

 A moment later her face was clear of expression, except for a vague hint of disgust in her eyes. Then, to Ruan's surprise, a small, knowing smile, a near mirror image of his, settled over her features, transforming her into something curiously familiar to him. "Want? That's a strong word, Ferrin. There are certain things I might be *interested* in, but that does not mean I *want* them."

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "You shouldn't play with words when you don't know the rules, Winnen-little. It could get dangerous."

"I never said I was playing."

"Indeed. But you are playing, Fallou, even if you never agreed to."

A brief, rigid pause filled the inches between them, and then, "And so are you."

Ruan felt a flash of excitement course through his limbs. He didn't answer.

"Right. Well, then, I suppose I should go see Ó Ceallaigh."

"You should."

With a final, furtive glance at Ruan's narrowed eyes Winn took a step back, and walked quickly away.

* * *

Something in her voice, or in the offhand way she had dealt with his appearance hinted at the idea that she had been *waiting* for him to arrive, as though she had known what he was planning to do. It was disturbing thought; if she was beginning to *use* the link with the intent to trace him, or intercept his thoughts, or predict his moves, then she would essentially be using the link as he was, and it wouldn't be long before she gained some form of control over the link—and over him.

Sitting on his bed, twisted sheets and rumpled comforter swathed about him, Ruan leaned back against the wall and directed an icy stare at the mirror. 

If he was correct in his assessment of Winn's potential, it was possible that given a chance the girl could very likely gain the upper hand. She was a threat—something he would have to take care of…and soon. 

He stared at the red-haired figure in the mirror. "And what do I do with threats?" he asked, detecting an unholy glint in the deep, azure-tinged shadows of the person's eyes. The person smiled back—he knew precisely what he did with threats. 

He destroyed them.

* * *

            "Good of you to come, Winnen. Please, sit down," Myr intoned, her voice clear and musical.

            As she approached the desk—Faolán's desk, she noted—Winn studied the slim, sandy-haired young woman sitting in the chair behind it. Myr was so *elegant*, filled with an assuredness natural to someone possessed of that kind of striking beauty and natural grace. She seemed so…perfect. Not the sort of person one would expect to be an expert manipulator and professional mercenary, but Winn was beginning to understand a lot of things that went on in the Nightworld. Clichéd as it seemed, appearances were most certainly proving to be not only deceiving but false, just as it was becoming clear to Winn that this kind of trickery was the only way to outrival both humans and fellow Nightworlders alike. 

            Winn gave a short nod and sat. "Shelley told me you wanted to see me."

            "I do indeed." Myr smiled brightly, and continued, "You see, Winnen, I have a dilemma." She gazed at Winn expectantly, as though she were waiting for her response.

            Without answering, Winn gazed steadily back at the intense violet eyes.

            The fair-haired woman's smile didn't falter. "I think you have already deduced that I am not quite what I seem, correct? Yes, I know you have. And I believe you came to this conclusion with the aid of a woman called 'Mara.' "

            What? Her cheeks were suddenly on fire and she felt as though the ground had just dropped away. How had she known? Trying to keep the shock from showing on her face, she clamped her mouth shut, and waited to hear the rest of what Myr had to say.

             Eyes twinkling, Myr chuckled. "Don't be so surprised, child. If you know as much as I've assumed you do, this shouldn't come as such a revelation."

            Winn licked her lips nervously—her mouth had gone dry—and took a shaky breath. "Then you…you're—ah—"

            "I am Elmyr, yes."

            *Elmyr.* In the back of her mind, a voice whispered, ~~…Elmyr, hands, mouth and hair sticky with gore, began to *burn* with an undreamed-of blend of cold-hot power…~~ Elmyr.

            "Well. I'm glad that we've cleared that up. Because, as it turns out, Winnen, you have something I need. Let me explain. Two thousand years ago, in the year 3 B.C., I was the most powerful vampire in existence—Yes, I realize that you know this and no, I do not hold with modesty. But at the end of that year, and at the height of my power, I made a mistake—I participated in a bloodfeast that augmented my power so immensely that my vampiric frame could not contain it, causing my body to be destroyed by the sheer force of the power I had absorbed. However, even though my body had been obliterated, my mind was still intact as a kind of force—comparable, you might say, to a spirit, or soul." 

            Shutting her eyes, Winn shook her head, grimacing at the shudders that pulsed relentlessly through her body. "Is this a different body, then? You said it was destroyed—how can you be *alive*?"

            "Mmm. Now comes the interesting part. This is a different body, yes, but it is also the same. After the bloodfeast my body was dead, a pile of ashes, a speck of soot—I had died by fire. My life-force, however, remained in the world—you could say I was something like a ghost—waiting, waiting, and waiting until finally, a thousand years later, something unusual happened: I was reborn. Out of the ashes of my first body I was born a second time, a perfect reproduction of the first both physically and psychologically. I grew from babe to child to adult in a matter of hours, at the end of which I was complete." At this, Myr smiled again, but this time her smile was a touch feral, a bit…vicious. "Well, almost complete, anyway. You see, Winnen, when the gods allowed my life-force, my soul, or whatever to return to me, they forgot one thing: *my power.* I was, indeed, reborn as the same being I had been before, but empty of all real power—oh, of course I had the usual, token powers vampirae usually have, but none of that is *genuine,* right, Winnen?"

            Her stomach dropped. A thick wave of trepidation passed over her, an ominous cloud heavy with portent. Why is she asking me? Winn wondered. Why is she telling me all this? 

            "You know, Winn, when I first saw you, I though you seemed familiar. I felt as though there was a connection between us and at first I was perplexed as to why I would feel that way towards a complete stranger—towards a puny, wretched girl with a fixation on my former fiancé." Myr was no longer smiling. Sharp, violet eyes narrowed, leaning forward, predator-like, in Faolán's chair, she continued a voice that was still clear and melodic, but now tinged with palpable hostility, "But I think I know now. My power didn't return to me because it was searching for a new vessel—just as I had been reborn in new flesh, my power sought to manifest itself in a new instrument. And do you know what, Winnen? I think that new instrument is you."

            "Me?" Winn choked. Her mouth felt like it was made of sandpaper.

            "Oh, yes. You and I, child, we're griffins…phoenixes…the stuff of legends! Don't you understand? We're marked. The power uses us, burns us, births us, and then leaves us lost, alone, and empty because we know what real power feels like to have inside—to be able to control!" Myr said in a harsh whisper, her voice no longer a lilting, bubbling confection. 

            The dread in Winn's chest was getting thicker; her stomach clenched.

She had sudden urge to jump out of her chair and *run*. Run far, far away from this office, this place, this woman and her rage. She swallowed painfully. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?" she croaked, fingers tightening on her chair's armrests. 

            Myr sat back, having regained her composure. "I told you all of this because I think you should know what you have to look forward to. And unfortunately, what I want from you isn't something that you can give freely—it must be taken. You aren't stupid, Winnen, so I believe you know what I want."

            "The power."

            "Yes, the power. All I ask is that you cooperate, child."

            Winn's eyes widened. Cooperate with what? And the power must be *taken*? No. No, no, no. Get up. Run. Run, Winn. Run. "Don't touch me. Don't touch me!" she spat, staring straight into an endless expanse of cold violet. With a sudden, violent movement she sprang out of her chair and spun around to make for the door.

            She never made it. As she was turning, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a flash of motion and light glinting on turquoise-blue eyes. Suddenly, she was facing the flaxen-haired Faolán, who stared at her from fewer than three feet away with ice-green eyes that were as cold and empty as Ruan's. She opened her mouth to scream—

            All went black.

As school is ending in a few days, I'll have loads more time to write, so expect an update very soon…Please, please, please review—I your comments are scrumptious and I have a weakness for hearing all you've got to say…! Tough spices to all who review!

Peaches,

Mogget ::happy smile:: 


	14. Chapter 14

See? Summer = loads more time to write = fast update… Well—at least a couple weeks is better than three months, eh? J Anyway, thank you so much to all who reviewed last time 'round (Sharmeen, apsara, Tamashii, Dulce Ambrosia, Elven Mistress)—I really appreciate it…! J

Chapter 14: Marquéd

Faolán was angry. He had been very, very dull, hadn't he? Because it seemed that Myr Ó Ceallaigh had been planning something quite different from what he had expected. In fact, this was not only different, it was *subversive*. How unfortunate. He had come to believe in the past three weeks—against all of his training and instinct—that Myr was loyal. Loyal to Morteflame, loyal to him, and, most importantly, loyal to the cause. 

And here she had just shattered all of those fallacious—if comfortable—illusions. All of his instincts screamed at him to rip her apart for her impudence, for her treachery. No, Faolán thought. Not yet. He glanced around the room and was troubled even further to note that Myr wasn't alone in her exploits against him. No, it seemed that one of the new recruits she had brought with her was involved as well, the one with the vivid, turquoise-colored eyes, the one Faolán believed was called Jasper. 

Replaying the episode that had just occurred, he recalled Myr giving a signal to the young vampire, who had in turn moved with blinding speed towards Fallou—even Faolán had been hard put to trace his movements—and knocked her unconscious with a short wooden baton. 

He glanced down and saw that the girl was lying sprawled on the floor three or so feet from him. The blow had left a sizeable welt on the side of her head, along her hairline, and, because the wound had been inflicted with wood, it was not healing. With faint distaste he noted that her blood was dripping unremittingly onto his priceless Persian rug. 

Myr had seen him, surprise obvious on her face, but both she and Jasper seemed to have frozen. 

"Ó Ceallaigh. Fancy meeting you here," Faolán intoned in a quiet, calm voice with. "I haven't caught you at an awkward moment, have I?"  

Needless to say, the question was rhetorical, and Myr knew it. His chest thrumming with fury, Faolán noted how quickly her face went from bordering on nervous to complete, practiced composure. He was intrigued—would she try to lie? 

Without moving from her place behind Faolán's desk, Myr straightened and met his cool gaze with violet eyes that suddenly seemed a great deal sharper than ten seconds before. "Faolán," she murmured. "Dear boy, I think you've done just that." A smile lifted up the corners of her mouth, and a dark light filled her purple orbs. 

Faolán was instantly alert—the lingering suspicion that something was off, that there was something crucial he didn't know, tugged at the edge of his mind. His brain went swiftly, feverishly through all possible scenarios, all probable motives for whatever Myr was doing. His head jerked up, and with blinding certainty he realized just how stupid he had been.

Myr gazed at him, mouth widening ever so slowly in a languorous, complacent smile. "But the only problem is—and I think you know this, now—is that this situation is just the slightest bit more compromising for you than for me. You see, Wolf, I had two imperative objectives when I arrived here, at Morteflame. First was to secure Fallou. Second was to get rid of, well, *you*."

For the barest fraction of an instant, Myr's gaze flickered away from his to fasten on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. A second rush of comprehension filled him and then a searing pain tore through his chest, centering with excruciating intensity just beneath his left breastbone. He stared down at his chest, noticing distantly that a bright crimson stain, an exotic, vivid flower, had appeared on his white shirt, directly over his heart. 

He hadn't seen Jasper move, he realized. Distracted—stupidly, incomprehensibly distracted—by both Fallou and Ó Ceallaigh, Faolán had been unaware of Jasper's shift from his position beside the girl to one directly behind him. From a great, shadowed distance, he heard Myr sigh with satisfaction and say in a soft, lilting tone to Jasper, "Perfect. I will remain here and take care of these two. Meet me below at five past eleven. Now, go. Ferrin should be in his quarters." 

There was a blur of motion to his left, drawing his attention for a moment, but then his knees gave way. He crumpled bonelessly to the carpet, no longer proud and rigid, his head falling less than a foot from Fallou's. Slumped on his side, he felt the agonizing burn begin to recede, leaving him feeling warm, liquid. His blurred gaze fell on the dark, blood-soaked curls a foot or so away. Yes, Winnen Fallou, he thought, feeling himself fade even as a stab of resentment for the troublesome creature went through him, You are indeed more than any of us have yet imagined…

* * *

It was spring, and the sun shone down with gentle brilliance, making the pale, gritty sand seem almost to glow with soft, white light. Almost blinding, certainly, but so beautiful, so comfortable. The soft, lilting sound of foamy waves lapping against the shore was musical…sweet…soothing. She could do whatever she wanted here…there was no one at all, no one for miles, and miles, and miles—

~Are you there?~ 

Oh, well…no one but *him*. Pausing in her unhurried walk along the seemingly endless seashore she peered languidly around, searching for the all-too-familiar owner of the voice. Actually, she thought, it's not his *voice*, not really… And she was right. The words weren't uttered by an actual voice…it was more a mental sensation she received and interpreted as language. 

Not seeing him behind her, before her, or beside her in the white sand, she answered, ~I'm here.~ Maybe he would find her. 

A soft chuckle sounded in her mind, a sound that was mostly mild but still possessed of the droll, sardonic undercurrents so characteristic of *him*. She felt an answering rush of warmth tug at her chest, a pleasant, nervous feeling that never faded, no matter the number of times she experienced it. 

~Shhh…Look over here.~

Oh. The voice was coming from the water. She gazed at the never-ending expanse of blue—it filled her vision completely, so that all she could see was the soft periwinkle of sky and the rich, sapphire blue of ocean. 

There…there he is, she thought, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her eyes locked on the pale figure standing thirty or so feet out, back turned to her, facing infinity. Only his pale torso was visible, hidden from the navel down by deep blue water, but the pale perfection of shoulder, spine, and hip was so beautiful, so utterly exquisite that for a second she could hardly breathe, afraid to break the perfect balance between him and that eternal expanse. 

~Come…join me…Please.~ The voice wasn't even a whisper—it was a suggestion of a thought, so soft, so imperceptible that, even though it was from his mind to hers, she could hardly understand it. And yet it still had the power to shock her with its intensity, a force so simple and profound it made her ache. 

Without bothering to shed her long skirt, she stepped forward, into the water, feeling the icy shock of springtime seawater stream across her feet, submerge her legs, splash against her thighs. Still, she did not falter. Seconds later she stood beside him, the iciness of the water faded to a pleasant coolness, and gazed out at the ocean with him. 

~Look,~ she sent. ~It doesn't ever end, here.~

~No,~ he agreed, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. ~It doesn't ever end.~

The warm pressure of his slim, long-fingered hand sent shivers through her body, and a rush of heat flared to life deep, deep inside of her. His hand moved across her back from her shoulder to the back of her neck, fingers trailing ever so lightly over her skin, finally resting in the juncture between her jaw and ear. 

Feeling like liquid, she drew in a breath, and turned towards him even as he turned towards her, until they were no longer facing Nature's perpetuity, but an infinity of a different sort. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of seawater, and leaned forward, her breath ghosting along the ridge of his collar bone. Shivering, he leaned down, closing the few inches that separated them, and stared at her, taking in the sheen of saltwater that swathed her cheeks, her lips, her brow. 

And then, the next instant, they were no longer individuals—their bodies were pressed together, their arms were wrapped tightly around one another, their lips were molded against each other. Their figures were half-submerged, their minds were fully submerged and they were so completely *equal*. 

* * *

Gasping for breath, Winn jolted awake, spine arched and eyes snapping open. "It was a—a dream…" she mumbled hoarsely, as though she was trying to convince herself. Of course it was a dream. It couldn't have been anything else—not anything at all.

But it had felt so *real*—not the way a dream might feel real, but the way a memory *is* real. 

Her body went cold. How stupid, she thought, sitting up and scowling. How positively *absurd*! Anyway, she concluded, it could have been anyone—it isn't as though I can remember his—face. 

~Does that matter at all, though, Winn?~ her mind taunted. ~Can't you remember it? The skin…the mouth…the taste… Remember?~ 

"Stop it!" Winn snapped. Don't be stupid. Things that aren't real don't… It wasn't real! 

"Stop what?" 

Startled, Winn jerked around at the sound of the voice—the words had been mumbled and almost unintelligible, but there was no denying whose voice it was. But why would *he* be here? 

Disregarding his question, she glanced around, feeling a familiar rush of trepidation fill her chest. Where is "here", anyway? she wondered. The light was dim, not that it mattered, but it was obvious that she was not in Morteflame anymore. At least not in the Morteflame she had known. A single candle-lit lamp set on the ground in the center of what appeared to be a spacious, dungeon-like chamber flickered erratically, throwing faint tendrils of golden light on a long figure slumped against the wall opposite the one Winn was leaning against. 

Ferrin. The lamp-light gleamed silver on the curve of his cheekbone and the arch of his brow. He turned even firelight cold. Peering closer, she realized that his eyes were opened to slits, as though he could hardly keep awake, and that he was leaning heavily against the wall, entirely deficient of his usual, unconscious grace. Weak as he seemed, however, Winn could not help but notice—with resentment—that he still managed to stare at her with his typical, frigid indifference entirely intact. 

And to her utter revulsion, it still had the power to affect her, evident in the hot flush enveloping her body, making her feel loose, unbalanced, and disturbingly shaky. It was a feeling that made her want to hit him—not slap him, but *hit* him—and bruise that pale skin; it made her want to tear his mind to shreds, to make him *feel* the way she felt. 

She averted her gaze, a hundred questions without answers and a thousand answers without questions racing through her brain, each seeking a companion and finding none. 

"I know you heard me, Fallou." The voice ripped into her thoughts like a winter wind: cold, relentless, determined. 

"Of course I did," Winn rejoined, recognizing this as a precious moment of vulnerability for Ruan and resolving to run with it. She turned her gaze upwards, though even her sharp eyes could not penetrate the dense shadow above. 

A long pause filled the chamber with tension. "Answer me, partridge," Ruan murmured. 

His near-reckless attempt to unnerve her was obvious even to her, but still, the sound of that particular endearment on those lips made her skin go hot with untamed anger. She hated herself at that moment, knowing that he could easily sense her discomfort. 

"It is unimportant." She plastered a small, deliberate smile onto her lips, sure that he could see it. Hoping he would be disturbed by it.

Ruan stared hard at her, and pushed himself up to lean more firmly against the wall. As though he was tasting each word, testing its potency, he replied, "I think you're lying, partridge…I think it was exceedingly important." He tilted his head to the side, and a smile crossed his lips. "You were dreaming, weren't you?"

Involuntarily, she leveled her gaze on Ruan, feeling yet another rush of heat stream violently through her body—she felt hot enough to melt. Not entirely cognizant of what she was saying, Winn narrowed her eyes and replied heatedly, "It hasn't got anything to do with you, you fetid piece of excrement!" No, no, no! a voice was wailing in the back of her mind. This wasn't how it was supposed to go…she had to stop…he wouldn't win if she would just *stop*. 

The smile grew wider, more triumphant. "I wonder what you were dreaming about, Fallou…" 

But she couldn't stop, now… She lost control. "Fuck off!" she growled. All calculation, all caution flew out the window until all she could think was that he mustn't know…he mustn't find out… 

"You were talking in your sleep," he continued, despite his amusement sounding rather curious. " 'I'm here,' you said… Who were you talking to, partridge? And then you said something like, 'It doesn't end here.' What doesn't end, I wonder?" He laughed shortly.

Winn pressed her lips together, forcing herself to stay quiet. Eyes narrowed, she concentrated on conjuring up an image of a thick steel wall that spanned the whole of her mind, a short, narrow door the only thing interrupting its gleaming homogeny. She imagined peering through the door and glimpsing Ruan running towards it, coming closer, closer…until he was just inches away and about to break through. No! she thought fiercely. He would see *everything*—she would be utterly exposed, raw, vulnerable… He would *know* what the dream was about—

She slammed the door. 

* * *

Pain sliced through his mind, a flashing, curving blade so numbingly cold it made him writhe. He hated when she did that. 

Less than a minute later, the intense, pulsing waves began to recede until they had faded into a muted ache, leaving him feeling even weaker than before and nauseous. He hadn't felt this…this powerless since childhood, after an especially thorough psychological defeat by his father. And he couldn't remember a time he had felt quite so physically exhausted. This was new, and it didn't feel natural. In fact, it felt like it had been *placed* on him—it felt like a spell. 

Opening his eyes, he stared across the chamber at Winn, aching to inflict the same kind of pain on her. His gaze locked onto intense dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Trembling slightly from the combined sensations of fatigue and ache, he scanned her face. Thanks to the weak flicker of lamp-light between them, he observed that it had assumed a marked pallor—it had lost the angry flush burned into it just moments before—and that her features were deliberately empty of expression.

Keyword: Deliberately. 

Then she *is* hiding something, he thought, intrigued, shifting so that he sat straight up. Knowing that were he to try he would be pushed violently out yet again, he itched to get into her mind and see what it was about her dream that she was trying to hide. While she dreamt, her mind had been curiously—and frustratingly—closed off, despite the link between them, allowing him only snatches of thoughts and glimpses of images, among them being a strip of blinding white sand, a tall, pale blur against a wide, blue smear, and the disturbingly real taste of salt. 

I'll wait, he thought, studying the dangerous glimmer in those dark eyes.

With narrowed eyes, he broke the gaze and tilted his head gingerly up to scan the chamber. To his left, perhaps twenty feet away, he noticed what appeared to be a door made of iron—old, but solid. There didn't seem to be any other opening or means of escape—the entire chamber, aside from the iron door, was made of thick slabs of a dark, nondescript grey stone. 

He couldn't quite remember how he had got here… The last thing he could recall before waking up in this place was standing in front of the closet in his room, looking for a jacket, when he heard the whir of something being swung violently through the air. He woke up to find himself sitting against a wall and Winn dreaming. Running a hand over his face, he thought he had an idea who was responsible, though. Indeed, Myr was the only person he could think of who had an immediate motive…Not that he knew what it was, but if she was willing to involve not only herself but the entire group of insurgents in Morteflame, he was sure she had some major incentive at hand. 

And beyond all of that, he *knew* Myr, knew what she was capable of. Even if he didn't know—and never had—exactly what her plans were.  

A harsh intake of breath in Winn's direction caused him to glance back at her. Holding his face carefully impassive, he watched as she shut her eyes, held her breath, and seemed to concentrate on something only she could see. The hot flush returned to her cheeks, her lips parted, and a near-tangible wave of tension enveloped her entire body. Amused, he noted that all of this had the effect of making her appear to be in the throes of a rather…sensual…predicament.

She was vulnerable right now, he sensed. Her mental wards were weaker, as well—he could feel her thoughts a little more clearly, though they were still rather hazy, and appeared to be more in the form of colors, feelings, and general concepts than coherent thoughts. Perhaps if he got closer…

Ignoring the ache in his head and the feeling that he was about to collapse, Ruan forced himself to stand, and then walk slowly, shakily over to Winn's end of the chamber.  Hating his sudden clumsiness, he dropped down beside Winn, who didn't seem to notice that he was there, and leaned back against the wall, keeping his eyes on her. A thin sheen of sweat covered her face, making it shimmer in the firelight. 

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, and she let out the breath she was holding. One of her hands, fingers clawed, raked the air inches from his face before latching onto his bare arm. 

The link exploded to life. "Fuck me," he muttered, and jerked his arm away before it drew him in and made him lose all control over his limbs.

Glancing down, he saw that Winn was nearly sprawled on the ground—her head was the only part of her propped up by the wall, which left her neck bent at an odd angle. His face remained perfectly blank as he bent down and wrapped an arm around her waist, ensuring that his skin did not touch hers, and pulled her upright—which took more effort than he would ever have dreamed something would. He rested her against the wall beside him, still staring narrowly at her face.

Her head turned towards him. Eyes flickering open, she focused on his face, seeking out his eyes. "It didn't work," she mumbled, sounding, he thought, dazed. Confused. 

Excitement flared up in him—what did she mean, it didn't work? Winn was a puzzle to Ruan—a labyrinth whose secrets were nearer to him than any other, which made her all the more impenetrable. And alluring. "What didn't work?" he murmured in a soft, coaxing voice.

For an instant he thought she was going to answer him—he could see her trying to put it 

into words—but then, the next moment, she seemed to realize to whom she was speaking. Her eyes flashed and he could *feel* her slam the door in his face again, only this time he wasn't inside of her mind, trying to get in deeper, which spared him a repeat of his earlier experience.

"Ruan." Her voice was cold and strangely sharp.

Without answering, he returned her narrow stare with one just as glacial.

"Get your filthy arm off of me."

He didn't even spare a glance down. "No," he replied evenly, a calculated smile curving his mouth, and tightened his grip on her waist. 

A dark light gleamed in her eyes, leaving her face filled an expression akin to rage. "You know, Ruan, Shelley told me something very interesting," she said softly. "She said that vampires are a singular race. Because in both the Human world and Nightworld, only vampires are equal in physical strength and speed, regardless of gender." 

The smile grew into a grin.

Under any other circumstances, Ruan could have easily subdued her—not because he was physically stronger, which, as Winn had just explained, but because he had nearly a century more experience. Due to the spell, however, Ruan was not only weaker at present but more sluggish, which automatically put him at a disadvantage as Winn rolled out of his grasp, kicking out viciously at the same time and catching him in the chest. He could already feel a bruise forming. Ignoring as well as he could the weakness in his limbs Ruan sprang at her, dropping neatly on top of her and locking her into a chokehold.

With an indrawn breath that sounded like a hiss, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and shoved him away. In a fraction of an instant she had straddled him, and wrapped her hands around his throat—avoiding skin-to-skin contact by covering her hands with the too-long sleeves of her grey sweater. 

Neither of them heard the door open.

* * * 

I'd love to hear what you've got on your mind! Please, do review…!

Peaches,

Mogget ::happy smile::


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